


a little less sixteen candles, a little more tactical warfare

by snapeforlife



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: BrOTPs Give Me Life, Canon Compliant, Capture the Flag, Gen, John Hughes Films, M/M, Minor Nickelback Bashing, POV Alternating, Paintball and Feelings, Post-Grand Prix Final, Shipping Isn't Super Major, Yuri Plisetsky's Birthday, post-Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 15:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10028207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapeforlife/pseuds/snapeforlife
Summary: No one loves paintball more than Phichit Chulanont, because when it comes to the perfect shot, well...He's got his camera phone for that.#yuripturns16In which sixteen skaters gather after a Canadian King strikes a bet with a Russian Fairy, and shenanigans ensue.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First fic here on A03 - sorry not sorry for the length, because I loved writing these precious losers too much. :)  
> Rated T because Yurio has a pottymouth.
> 
> Disclaimer: I've never played paintball in my life.  
> Please let me know what you think, and thanks for checking this out!

Looking back, Phichit Chulanont remembered bits and pieces of the Barcelona Grand Prix Final.

Everything had started out in scenes of gold – the warmth of lights outside Sagrada Familia, the sheen of twin engagement rings, the sparkle of sequins on his short program costume.

The final bits and pieces he remembered? Silver – a pole pulled out of thin air, giggling and more giggling, followed by an arm around his shoulders from a tall, tipsy friend and, “Chu, banquets are for celebrating and giving the engaged lovebirds a public little push, no?”

The next morning, he was sporting a single shoe, a tie belonging to Christophe, and the raddest hangover of his young life.

The Thai skater smiled at the memory (or lack thereof), looking down to run a finger over bronze, when he heard a quiet knock on his hotel room door. He toed on black dress shoes, leaving the laces undone as he made his way to the door, and Phichit barely had to crack it open for a blur of navy, panic, and pleasantly spiced cologne to make a grab for his lapels.

“Yuuri,” he grinned, greeting his visitor. Said visitor relinquished hold of Phichit’s jacket, looking sheepish. “You almost ready to head down, buddy?”

He opened the door a little wider and paused, eyes scanning over his best friend’s outfit. Shiny brown loafers. Crisp white shirt. Navy suit, tailored to perfection. Everything purchased at the whim of his Russian fiancé, no doubt, but-

Phichit frowned. “Where’s your tie?”

The Japanese skater sighed, running a hand through his hair, which had probably been freshly gelled in the last hour before anxiety took its toll. “That’s the thing. I can’t find my lucky tie! It was in my suitcase yesterday, I just know it.”

“Ah,” Phichit intoned, noting his friend’s utter distress, “the powder blue one, right? I’m sure I have one you could borrow, if that’s what you need.”

Yuuri smiled, eyes relaxing a little behind his glasses. “Yes! Thank you, Phichit.”

The Thai man waved a hand, gesturing him grandly inside. Yuuri let out a sigh of relief, stepping into the room, and his gaze dropped down to Phichit’s neck.

“Are all your ties striped and shiny?” his old roommate teased, poking at the bronze medal decorating his chest. “Maybe I should go next door and try Otabek instead.”

“Hey! I was about to put on an actual tie,” Phichit defended, smile growing. He held out his medal, thumb running over the bottom of the ribbon. “It’s not every day I place third at Four Continents, you know! I’m just committing this competition to memory.”

“I understand,” Yuuri nodded slightly, and Phichit wondered if he was thinking back two months to his own silver from Barcelona. “Congratulations on this week, by the way. You earned it.”

“We both earned it,” the Thai skater corrected, quirking a brow up. “Jean Jacques, though? The jury’s still out on that one.”

Yuuri laughed, shaking his head a bit. “Did you see Seung-gil’s face from the other end of the podium? I thought he was going to step right up to the top and strangle JJ.”

“I’d say that’s a pretty typical reaction to JJ getting gold at any competition, though… remember Russian Yuri’s wrath?”

Yuuri chuckled. “Puberty is in full swing, Phichit. He’s housesitting for Victor and I during this week’s Four Continents, and we expect to come back tomorrow night to an apartment of broken dishes and unbearable teenage angst.”

“Yikes! Speaking of your apartment in Russia,” Phichit latched onto that detail, nudging his friend in the navy-clad shoulder, “we’re still on for the first week in March, right?”

“Two weeks away, yes! Victor and I will have the guest room all ready for you,” Yuuri affirmed, grinning widely. “I know that’s just a month before Worlds, but I’m sure all of us can get some training in, along with sightseeing and such. Saint Petersburg is beautiful right now.”

“You know,” the Thai skater started, trailing off. He rocked up on the balls of his dress shoes, holding back a grin.

Saint Petersburg had sights and shopping, but most importantly, it had a huge rink, with plenty of room for lights, or props, or balloons, or… _Phichit! On Ice._

“When I come down in two weeks, lots of skaters will be there, right? Like Georgi, Mila, you, Victor, Yuri-“

“Otabek,” Yuuri interrupted suddenly, looking alarmed. Phichit mulled it over.

“Otabek could definitely rock a hamster hat, especially with such a strong jawline.”

“No, I mean,” said Yuuri in a rush before stopping abruptly. A confused look crossed his face. “Did you just say ‘hamster hat?’”

“Don’t worry about it,” Phichit laughed, biting at his tongue. He could elaborate later, if needed. “What about Otabek?”

“I just remembered,” the Japanese skater continued, messing his once-gelled hair up some more. Phichit lightly slapped his hand away. “The first day of March? It’s Yurio’s sixteenth birthday! He invited Otabek into town as well to celebrate, and I guess maybe we’ll all try to throw him a small party…”

Small party.

Party.

PARTY?

“Yuuri. Did you say,” he said slowly, eyes certainly gleaming with the light of a thousand burning suns, “ _party_?”

“Yes, I-” his friend started, only to stop immediately after meeting the shining gaze. “I said _small_ party.”

Phichit grinned, unwavering. Yuuri frowned, so the Thai skater threw in a wink for good measure.

“Yurio will murder you to the best of his ability.”

“My plan is to use,” Phichit jabbed a finger toward the hotel room wall to the right, continuing, “Otabek… use him as a defense shield if Yuri gets angered at my enthusiasm.”

“It’s a good strategy,” Yuuri agreed, crossing his arms over his chest. His lips quirked up at the corners. “Too bad he’s always angry.”

“ _That’s_ where the defense shield plan comes in handy. Best friends can be useful in many situations, you know.”

“Speaking of best friends being useful,” the Japanese skater trailed off, gesturing to his bare collar, “did you happen to pack that red tie from Detroit that I always liked?”

“I did! Ah, the memories that tie holds. College… good times!”

Yuuri groaned. “Don’t remind me. Also, about tonight – limit my alcohol, please, Phichit! I don’t want another repeat of the Grand Prix Final banquet of two months ago.”

“Which was merely a repeat of the Grand Prix Final banquet of _fourteen_ months ago, but with actual consensual gyration from both parties!” Phichit pointed out smartly. Yuuri rolled his eyes.

“Okay, okay! Limit me, too,” the Thai skater agreed, sighing. “I want to have both shoes on my feet when I wake up tomorrow. Also, if Ciao Ciao can look me in the eye for a week, that would be a pleasant change from Barcelona.”

Yuuri chuckled, mortified. “Was that one vein in his forehead all out and throbbing? I bet it was.”

“Oh, most definitely,” the Thai skater laughed, cringing a little. “You think he’s wearing that same annoyed expression right now? The coach press conference downstairs is probably still in full swing.”

“I mean, JJ just won Four Continents gold,” Yuuri pointed out. “If his parents are anything like their son, they’ll be holding the press up for hours down there with all that talk. Poor Victor!”

“Poor Victor, indeed,” Phichit echoed sympathetically. He turned, crossing the room to his closet in two strides. “Let me get the red tie for you… and you need to regel your hair, buddy! There’s some mousse in front of my mirror.”

Yuuri knotted the red fabric, tucking it under his collar. Phichit removed his medal and did the same with a striped tie, watching as his friend made his way over to the large vanity mirror. He made quick work of the mousse, gelling his hair into a seductively-slicked coif, while Phichit whipped out his phone, turning the camera on. He pressed ‘record,’ extra sneaky for a few moments before narrating the scene.

"Here we have Yuuri Katsuki, resident heart-breaker of room 307 and your Four Continents fifth-place skater."

Yuuri froze in front of the mirror, hands still buried in his hair. He turned to the camera with a frown.

"Phichit?"

"Take note of his alert eyes and that strong nose, eclipsed only by those strong thighs, whew!"

"Oh god," Yuuri muttered, flushing red. He stepped closer to the Thai skater, putting a gel-covered palm up to block the lens. "Stop it, Phichit!"

Phichit snickered gleefully, nearly dropping his phone as his Yuuri shoved it away. He swiped at the screen, ending the video, and the Japanese man backed up toward the mirror once more, eyes narrowed.

"I'm going to take lots of videos when I'm in Russia, you know," Phichit said matter-of-factly, grinning like a madman as he wiped excess hair product off his smartphone. "I hope you're prepared. Nothing is safe from my social media accounts!"

Yuuri rolled his eyes halfheartedly. "I don't doubt that for one second.”

Phichit laughed. “Seriously, though! Every picture on my phone from the Grand Prix banquet was borderline obscene. This year, I want to make sure I take lots of pictures and videos of fun times with all my friends and fellow skaters. Who knows, maybe I can even start a movement!”

His friend chuckled, raising a brow. Phichit had to mentally slap himself, because ‘Eros’ Yuuri was at full force tonight, hair game on-point. “If all the other skaters start posting things every hour like you do, they might take away your social media spotlight, Phichit.”

“I’d like to see them try!” the Thai skater scoffed, amused at that thought. He snapped his fingers, grinning as an idea popped into his head. “I’m definitely going to use a hashtag for all my Russia posts, though. Something like… #yuriplisetskysweet16. Hmm… maybe #yuripturns16?”

Yuuri snorted, shrugging. “Like I said, defense shield. Annoy Yurio at your own risk.”

“I do love a challenge!”

It was nearly eight when they left his hotel room, and Phichit led the way to the elevators, halting in his tracks before he could reach for the button.

“Wallet,” he murmured, eyes wide in remembrance. “I left it in my room. Go on down, Yuuri, and I’ll be there in a minute!”

“Sure,” the older skater nodded, straightening out his glasses before pushing the ‘down’ arrow. Phichit whirled around and walked off, digging deep in a pocket for his keycard. He got a green light after swiping down and slipped back inside the room, taking note of his untouched wallet sitting on the end table.

He looked to the left. He looked to the right.

Ah, why not?

Phichit closed the door with a slow, secretive swing as he crept past his suitcase, dress shoes squeaking slightly. He pulled his phone back out. Camera app? Now recording.

"You weren't there when I said this earlier, gentle viewers, but," Phichit started, panning across his cozy room as he made his way to the quaint closet, "best friends _can_ be useful in many situations."

He opened the door dramatically, running his fingers over a green tie, then a navy one... before giving a certain powder blue tie a tug.

"This is Phichit Chulanont, bronze medalist on this lovely February evening, defending banquet-goers everywhere from ugly, terrible ties... wow, I probably shouldn't post this on Instagram. Yuuri might see it!"

He brought his finger to the screen, preparing to end the video, when he thought better of it. "You owe me, Victor Nikiforov. This one’s for you. I hope you’re ready for my visit to Russia, with love from the best friend!”

True to his word, Phichit didn’t put the recording on social media. It only went out to a single recipient.

If a certain Russian legend seemed a little smugger than usual as he grabbed onto a red tie later in the night, well, no one called him out for it.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

The seconds ticked by as Victor Nikiforov stared up at the ceiling, racking his brain. Smoke curled up around him, wafting throughout his kitchen as the soup continued to boil on the stovetop. The tense silence stretched onward.

“You forgot… didn’t you, old man?”

Another moment passed. His fiancé moved in close to his ear, whispering a single word before passing it off as a nuzzle.

_‘Birthday.’_

Ah hah!

“Ah, wait,” Victor pointed out, snapping his fingers delightedly. “I remember now. That’s your birthday weekend coming up, Yurio!”

The Russian Yuri folded his arms over his chest, allowing broth to drip down onto the floor from the spoon he gripped. He eyed Victor sharply, strands of shoulder length hair hanging loose from his braid. He blew them away with an annoyed huff.

“Yes. As _Katsudon_ remembered,” the blond stressed the nickname, and Victor watched Yuuri grin from out the corner of his eye, “the first week in March contains my birthday. Along with Beka visiting, and apparently Phichit Chulanont, I take it you two clowns haven’t heard about the other partygoers, judging by your confused expressions.”

Victor quirked a brow, looking back down at his phone. Instagram was open, and the top trending tag?

_#yuripturns16_

“Hmm, ‘other partygoers,’” Victor echoed, scrolling idly. Figure skating articles featuring names he was all too familiar with caught his eye – especially two certain names. “What’s going on with Instagram right now, Yurio? I see lots of posts between Yuri’s Angels and JJ Girls.”

There was a beat of silence, and the blond didn’t respond. Victor frowned at the phone in his hand, mentally willing it to reveal answers.

“The banquet last night seemed fun,” Yuri stated softly, eyes on the dripping spoon. Victor inhaled. He could sense the frustration building. “Did anyone babysit Chulanont?”

“I was with him near the beginning,” Yuuri contributed, pushing blue-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. Victor gave him a squeeze, smiling softly. The smallest Russian cleared his throat, effectively ruining the moment.

“Did anyone babysit Chulanont when he and Jerk Jackass Leroy decided to _call me_ from the banquet and goad me into a stupid bet?”

“A… stupid bet?” Victor repeated, furrowing his eyebrows. “Does this have to do with JJ Girls and Yuri’s Angels, Yurio? The two fan groups _do_ always seem to be at each other’s throats.”

“I won the Grand Prix Final, and JJ just won the Four Continents,” Yuri explained, waving his free hand. The blond continued, eyes narrowing. “The fans were trying to decide who’s better between the two of us, then Chulanont apparently chimed in and started a fucking revolution!”

“I guess we’ve missed something, Yurio,” Yuuri spoke up, giving Victor the side-eye as he timidly tousled his own hair. “We’ve been off our phones and on a plane all day. I know Phichit mentioned something before the banquet about an Instagram tag and about recording everything when he gets here, but what does this have to do with JJ, and what about a… a bet, you said?”

“I hope you two like paintball,” Yuri growled, nearly breaking Victor’s favorite soup spoon in half. The silver-haired skater restrained himself from reaching out to grab it. “Leo de la Iglesia suggested it at your banquet. Turns out every other goddamn skater thinks coming to Russia for my birthday is a swell idea, even with Worlds looming the following month, so guess what? We’re now officially having a match on my birthday to prove who’s better. Fucking paintball.”

Yuri rolled his eyes skyward as he finished his rant, waving the spoon with a flourish in the most melodramatic way he knew how.

The older Russian couldn’t help himself – the ridiculousness of the situation was too much, and he burst into laughter. Yuri leaned forward in one angry movement, whacking him with the handle of the spoon, and even Victor’s own fiancé didn’t come to his rescue.

“I’m sorry, but,” Victor choked out, calming himself down, “let me get this straight. Phichit and JJ riled up social media and used that leverage to force your hand, allow other skaters to use your birthday as an excuse for a multi-day vacation in one of the coldest parts of Europe during March, and challenge you to a deathmatch of… paintball?”

“I’ve never even fucking played paintball!” Yuri threw his hands up, way past exasperated. “Phichit kept saying something about a hamster ice show with everyone, but I think maybe he was drunk off his ass, and then JJ’s dumb fiancée wants to hit up Europe anyway for wedding dress shopping since he gold medaled or some shit. Ugh!”

“Wait,” Yuuri interjected, waving his hands frantically. “A bet, though… what are the stakes?”

Victor was surprised to see the change in expression on the teenager’s face. The anger morphed to deadly delight, and there was a spark of challenge in those green eyes.

“Exhibition skates at Worlds next month,” Yuri revealed, teeth bared. “If he wins, he picks my exhibition song, and that’s what I would have to skate to. When I win, I get to pick his. Any song at all.”

“I think you mean _if_ you win, Yurio,” Victor heard himself correct, and he wasn’t surprised at all when the blond ignored that remark completely. The oldest skater raised a finger, touching his chin in a pensive manner.

“Say you do lose, though,” Victor pointed out. “You would be dropping your ‘Welcome to the Madness’ routine to skate to something new in front of millions of people, and it would be hand-chosen by _JJ_. Isn’t that risky?”

“I’m not scared,” said Yuri brashly, tilting his chin up. “If the internet wants this bullshit, I’ll give them a good show, because hell would freeze over before I wimp out on a bet from _Leroy_!”

Victor looked over at his fiancé, and the two shared an unconvinced glance. Yuri scoffed, setting down the spoon as he lowered his voice to a mumble.

“Do you losers want any of this soup, or what?”

“Oh, Yurio!” Victor bit his tongue, turning back to the blond with a smile. “Did you stay up just to greet us with food when we got back from the airport? That’s so sweet of you!”

Yuri scowled, turning murderous once more. He stomped his right foot, fuzzy cat socks lacking any proper threat. “Huh? I stayed up to inform you about all this bullshit, old man! I’m not tired anyway, I can do what I want. I’m almost sixteen!”

“Two weeks,” Victor reminded him, holding up two fingers. “Do you want a cake for your birthday, Yurio? Yuuri made a really nice one for my last birthday, I remember it well…”

“The ‘Sixteen Candles’ cake,” Yuuri half-smiled, remembering the delightful vanilla frosting. “A classic cake from a classic movie. Phichit always made me watch it on my birthday.”

“I can’t have cake,” Yuri huffed moodily, scuffing at the floor with a socked foot. “Yakov and Lilia would kill me, then further restrict my diet, then kill me again.”

“Okay, but,” Victor spoke up, interest slightly piqued. “Did you say _classic movie_ , darling? I need more American culture in my life from your Detroit days... show me!”

“Oh,” Yuuri laughed shortly, scratching at the back of his head. “It’s a pretty old movie, and it’s kind of cheesy…”

“But you said it was titled ‘Sixteen Candles,’” Victor pointed out, eyes going wide. “Yurio clearly needs to watch it.”

“No, I _clearly_ do not.”

“Wow! I know!” Victor exclaimed, giving a little clap. “Let’s have a movie night tonight! This jet lag is hitting me hard, and who needs sleep anyway? Everyone’s in? Good.”

The blond scowled, throwing his hands up in the air. “Fucking fine. We can eat all this soup, then. Make me popcorn though, with lots of butter… and I want pillows galore.”

Yuuri smirked, shaking his head slightly. “If you guys say so. Phichit’s movie taste is questionable, just warning you.”

The blond sighed, dragging his feet away from the stove. “I’ll be back. Let me walk your poodle one last time, then I’ll be ready to sit on your couch and bitch at every dumb thing that happens for the following hour and a half. Deal?”

Victor beamed. “We wouldn’t have it any other way, Yurio.”

“I’m only doing this because I don’t want to go back to Lilia’s tonight,” the teenager added, jabbing Victor in the chest as he passed by to leave the kitchen.

“You know you’re always welcome here, Yurio!” the older Russian called out. He leaned his head against Yuuri’s shoulder as Makkachin’s soft barks filled the air.

“’Always welcome here,’ huh?” a timid voice tickled his ear. “That could get a little crowded, I think.”

Victor noted the teasing lilt in Yuuri’s tone, pinking slightly, and he nuzzled in closer.

“You’re too right, my love,” he murmured back, mouth pressed to the Japanese man’s cheek, and he shifted slightly, bringing their lips together. His fiancé reached a hand up, tangling it into the silver strands, and Victor sighed happily into the kiss.

“Oi, stop making out! If I wanted this kissy bullshit, I’d just go home already!”

Yuuri broke the sweet embrace, looking stunned as the Russian Yuri’s implication dawned on him.

“Wait… home… are Lilia and Yakov back together? Was I the only one who didn’t know about this?”

“I knew,” Victor revealed after a beat of silence, releasing a peal of laughter. “It’s been going on for the past few weeks. You can tell by the dark eye circles and prominent pained limp.”

Yuri gagged. “I don’t need to hear about Lilia limping, fucking gross! Adults and their sex life, ugh!”

Victor bit his lip. He couldn’t help it. “I was talking about Yakov, actually! Lilia must be wild in bed.”

Yuri turned on his heel wordlessly, leash in hand, probably weighing his immediate housing options.

“I’m moving to Kazakhstan. The weather sucks less, and then I won’t have to deal with fucking _Skype_ every night to talk to my best friend. Yakov won’t miss me, I’m sure.”

“He’s losing it,” Yuuri whispered, holding in a smile. “Vitya, you said too much.”

“I hate everything,” Yuri continued, sighing. “I really do. When I get back, I want double the amount of butter on my popcorn. No skimping on the salt, either! I’m feeling salty as hell tonight.”

“Got it, Yurio,” the dark-haired skater assured with a comforting smile, and the blond followed Makkachin outside into the chilly Saint Petersburg night.

Roughly two hours and two packs of tissues later, there was a new addition to the blond’s Instagram page. It was a dark couch picture containing a tear-streaked Victor, the Russian freaking out as two main characters kissed on-screen over a vanilla cake in true 1980’s fashion.

#uglycrieralert #sixteencandles #whyisthisevenamovie #ihatemylife

#yuripturns16

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hi there, folks! I'm Mila Babicheva, figure skater extraordinaire. Everyone who has been following hashtag ‘yuripturns16’ for the past ten days… welcome to Saint Petersburg! I’m here to show you a typical day in my life at the rink."

The redhead fluffed her hair for the camera, flashing a confident smile as she panned across the room behind her. The lighting was perfect, sun streaming through from the mid-morning glow and flattering her cheekbones in the most wonderful way.

She'd be stupid not to make the most of this video opportunity, and Mila was smart as hell.

"This room here," she started, gesturing grandly with her non-camera hand, "is my home rink's lounge, where my day typically starts and ends."

She indulged herself with a little spin, allowing the camera to capture the comfy couches, filled vending machines, lavish wall art, and pristinely carved mirrors. The Russian pulled the camera right to face-level, admiring the way her shirt's neckline clung to the top curve of her shoulders as she spoke more about the room.

"It's currently empty, which means Victor has already perfected his hair for the day, and Georgi must be moping in the men's locker room instead. Tough luck, Georgi."

She shifted, plopping down to take a seat on one of the leather couches before smoothing down her uncharacteristically tight skirt.

The camera continued to roll. "Oh!"

The skater panned her camera upward, teasing at a painting above her head. "You like that masterpiece, huh? That's Yurio's favorite, too. Note the feline elements over in the right-hand corner, so realistic."

She snorted, leaning back. “JJ Leroy, if you’re watching this, might I suggest a cat-themed exhibition skate song for Yurio if you win the battle this week? I’ll volunteer to help you force some kitten ears on him, maybe even-“

Footsteps.

Mila paused mid-sentence, listening to the approaching sound from outside in the hallway.

"Ooooh," she murmured, flipping the camera to face the door. "Let's see which skater is approaching, shall we?"

Plot twist: it wasn't a skater. The door clicked open, and in walked Lilia Baranovskaya, ballerina extraordinaire. 

She glided over toward the sink area with heels clicking harshly across the tile, causing Mila to straighten up unconsciously at the sound, camera lowering. Lilia was turning on the faucet, waiting for the water to heat up, when she finally noticed the teenage skater in the corner. Mila crossed and uncrossed her legs, camera still in hand. A beat of silence passed as the older women cocked a brow.

"What are you doing?"

The redhead laughed nervously, shutting the video down. "Nothing, ma'am. Just a little something for the fans at home."

"Mmhm," the ballerina intoned. "You're not the only one, it seems. I caught Georgi Popovich walking out of the men’s locker room with a camcorder earlier."

_Called it._

The skater smiled, drumming her fingers on the upholstery. She saw Lilia's gaze slide downward, and the atmosphere tensed again. Mila chuckled despite herself, and the ballerina's eyes went further into her hairline, if possible.

"I imagine skating in that outfit will be difficult today," Lilia noted finally, dipping a finger to test the now-hot water.

"What, this old thing?" Mila waved a hand, forcing her expression into something more innocent. "I found it in the back of my closet!"

A huge lie, obviously. She had spent the last three days breaking in these deathtrap shoes. Even new skates were easier.

"Besides," she continued, "today's my day off."

"At the rink on your day off?" Lilia replied loftily, reaching for a mug. She took a long sip. "You might want to rethink that, unless you want Yuri Plisetsky and his Kazakh friend interrupting your peace and quiet here for the rest of the afternoon."

"Oh?" Mila asked, voice deceptively casual as she tugged down her short skirt once more. "Otabek's flight is getting in today, then? It must have completely slipped my mind."

She plastered a bright smile onto her face. Lilia frowned.

"I can see that," the older woman noted, unconvinced as her eyes slid down toward the skater's stilettos.

Lilia's own heels looked just as uncomfortable. The skater wondered if, in her younger days, the ballerina ever dressed up to impress a man… like Coach Yakov. She considered asking before realizing she valued her life and sanity a little too much to risk it.

"Well," Mila cleared her throat, standing up with a little shimmy, "I guess I'll just hang around and see what everyone else is up to. Aren't you the one driving Yurio to the airport?"

"I am," Lilia replied curtly, adding an extra teabag to her cup. She stirred the mixture in silence, stepping away from the counter as she took another sip. Mila powered off her camera with an anxious little hum.

"Mila," the ballerina beckoned, now halfway to the door. The skater looked up, and was greeted with a tiny smirk. "Do try to keep that hem pulled down. I doubt Otabek Altin can be impressed by such provocation."

Mila bit her lip, unable to hold back the response. "Are you speaking from experience?"

Lilia smiled, a rarity. "I never needed a pair of Louboutins to keep Yakov on his toes. Now, go wash your face. If you're going to lurk around the rink with the boys tonight, you needn't look like a hussy."

The redhead was too awed to even be offended.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

"Shot through the heart, and you're to blame!"

"Leo, please, no…"

"Darling, you give love," Leo de la Iglesia continued to croon, dropping his voice low, "a bad name!”

He timed his sweet air guitar solo with Guang Hong's giggles from the other line, balancing his phone on one shoulder as he played through imaginary riffs. He stopped midway through, grabbing at the remote to switch songs.

“Did you really _just_ pick that one for the ‘shot through the heart’ part? I think that’s stretching it a little, Leo.”

“Maybe,” the American replied, grinning as an older tune started up. “Here’s ‘Hit Me with Your Best Shot.’ Better?”

“Much,” Guang Hong’s assent rang out in his ear, and Leo heard the click clack of a keyboard in the background. The American began putting gear into his duffel, humming along.

"Hey, Leo," buzzed the voice on the other line. "Did you know this paintball place was built just last year in Russia? It's supposed to be, like, the literal size of a huge forest, with trees and everything! It’s all indoor, luckily – not freezing like it will be outside."

"Mmhm," Leo affirmed longingly. He ran his thumb over the tactical vest in his grasp, noting the weathered bend of the straps. 

"America has some really great places to play, but this is supposed to be one of the best in the _entire world_. I'm so pumped! We're going to kick some ass!"

"You don't know that we'll even be on the same team," Guang Hong pointed out, sounding pouty. "I think Jean Jacques and Yuri are the ones picking teammates... and I'm sure you'll be picked as one of the first since you're an expert."

"Expert? Hah, you're right about that," the American chuckled haughtily, and he could practically hear his friend's eye roll over the phone. He moved to rack the slide on his paintball gun, lifting it out of the bag fully.

"Anyway," the Chinese skater continued, still click-clacking away, "what are you planning to do with this playlist I’m hearing?"

“Share it with the fans, of course,” responded Leo, rifle in hand as he kicked his feet up on his desk. His eyes scanned the room, looking out for anything else he potentially needed to pack. “This ‘yuripturns16’ tag is filling up like _crazy_. Leave it to Phichit to start something insane!”

“You’re right about that,” Guang Hong fondly agreed. He sighed a little into his phone. “I need to figure out something cool to post! Maybe I’ll buy some great paintball gear and take a picture of that.”

“If not, I’ve got you covered,” Leo offered, casting his eyes down at the bulging bag of tactical gear. “Did I ever tell you about the first time I played paintball? Jean Jacques Leroy and Otabek Altin were there, too.”

There was a surprised noise from the other line. “What, really? Was this during the year you three trained in America together?”

“Yeah, it was,” Leo grinned, remembering. “A rink mate was having a birthday party, and there was a complex nearby, so lots of us went. I remember JJ falling down and crying, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

“A crying Jean Jacques? My lips are sealed,” promised Guang Hong, laughing a little. “I would have given anything to see that, though!”

“The three of us were pretty close back in those days,” Leo added, nostalgic. “Well, Otabek and I, at least. Cool guy. JJ could be a little try-hard, though, but still a nice dude. The three of us loved music, so we shared playlists and song recommendations a lot.”

“That’s pretty cool. Think anyone else is making a paintball-themed playlist like you are?” Guang asked, and Leo could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Not sure,” Leo answered, reaching down to zip his bag up. “Who else is coming, uh… the Crispino twins, Emil Nekola, Christophe Giacometti, Seung-gil Lee, someone named Minami Kenjirou…”

“All the Russian skaters, too, and maybe a few others?” Guang Hong contributed. “I wonder if we’re all headed to the same hotel? It’ll be crazy!”

“Can’t wait!” said Leo, beaming. “My flight takes off tomorrow night… you’ll meet me for sightseeing once we’re both there, right?”

“Of course,” Guang said, laughing nervously. “Let’s just make sure we don’t wind up in a room with Victor Nikiforov and alcohol again, alright? I’m still recovering from that incident at the Cup of China, and who knows how crazy all these other skaters can get!”

Leo grinned, using his remote to switch the track to ‘Ready, Aim, Fire.’

"How much do you know about Christophe Giacometti, Guang?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a few weeks into December when Otabek Altin had realized he needed to actually  _charge his phone_  each day.

It had been plugged in, lit up, when he saw the shifting in the hallway. He hadn’t been able to help it – the Kazakh’s lip quirked up, and he stopped pretending to ignore the quiet movements.

"I can see your feet, sis," he spoke up, dropping the headphones down from his ears and letting the music pulse around his neck. His bedroom was silent, and the pacing outside his door silenced as well. The ten-year-old wiggled her toes, pausing a moment before opening Otabek's door and peeking her head in.

"You've been on your phone a lot since Barcelona last week," she said, amber eyes going wide. "I can hear the notifications all the way from my room!" 

Otabek smiled, running a finger over his smartphone. The screen was lit up, now with a new message. "Can you now?"

"Yes!" she affirmed, shaking her dark curls matter-of-factly. She pushed the door fully open, beaming as she sauntered over to her brother with childlike curiosity, and Otabek knew he could deny his sister nothing.

He gestured her over, reaching to pull his headset off and place it around her delicate neck. It would slip off over her ears no matter what, so she preferred it this way, humming a little as the slightly-muted music made its way up to her ears.

"So," the littlest Altin spoke up, voice too singsong to be casual, "are you texting _Yuri_?"

Otabek decided to play along. He shrugged. "What makes you think I'd be doing that? I have plenty of other friends, you know."

"Yeah, but," she insisted, eyes sparkling, "you're never, _ever_ on your phone! I didn't even know it worked!"

"Looks like it does," Otabek smirked, holding it up. The notification light was flashing, and his sister made a sneaky grab for it.

"Someone's nosy," he chuckled, holding it up out of her reach. She pouted, drawing back, but the gleeful glint in her eyes betrayed her expression.

"Are you sending Yuri _love messages_?"

Otabek quirked a brow, fighting a blush at the notion. Strange. "I'm sending Yuri cat pictures."

"Aha!" she exclaimed, victorious. "So you  _are_  texting Yuri, then! Are you two best friends now? I read all about what happened last week in Barcelona. The Hero and the Fairy... it was all so adorable! He's  _so_  handsome! I’m going to marry him one day! Do you like him a lot? Do you, Beka?"

"...Beka?”

Fingers snapped in front of his face.

“Are you zoning out on me? I didn't think I was  _that_  boring, asshole."

Otabek jolted, giving his head a little shake. "Sorry. You’re not boring it all, Yura. It must just be the jet lag.”

The Kazakh skater was overwhelmed.

Time flitted by too quickly, yet every moment of the last twenty-four hours had been slow and dazing and rendered him hyperaware of the little things. Yuri smirked, expression sharp underneath the fluorescent studio lighting, and Otabek regained focus.

“Jet lag? Is that an excuse for your sloppy turnout?”

The blond skirted the barre with his fingers, heels together and forming a perfect line. Otabek looked down at his own feet – not so straight of a line. His lip twitched up in amusement.

“You think my turnout’s sloppy, too?” the Kazakh noted, wiggling all ten toes. His dance shoes squeaked against the polished floor. “Keep insulting that, then. It’ll be a nice change from the jabs at my _plié_ s.”

“Beka, _I_ said nothing bad about your _plié_ s,” Yuri defended, eyes alight. He pointed his right foot, circling back in a rond de jambe. “That was all Lilia at last night’s practice!”

“You were thinking it, though,” Otabek pointed out, shifting while still in first position so that he was face-to-face with Yuri on the barre. His knuckles tightened anxiously as the blond’s eyes flashed with laughter.

“Maybe a little,” the Russian admitted, showing his teeth in a smile. “What did you want me to do, compliment your mediocrity like Mila was doing all night? No fucking thanks.”

“I think Lilia would have walked right out,” the older skater predicted, brows furrowing at the thought, “and I need her to continue to regard me with disappointed indifference, at least for the next few days while I inhabit her extra guest room.”

“Katya and I wouldn’t let Lilia toss you out,” Yuri assured him, lifting his back leg into an arabesque. “Well, Katya maybe, because she’s a cat, but still.”

“Your cat loves me, though.”

“I never said she was smart,” Yuri grinned wider, removing his hand from the barre and stretching it at eye level. Otabek nearly felt the brush of fingertips against his nose.

“So,” the blond continued, scooting forward on his left leg, right still high in the air. He grabbed at Otabek’s shoulder, balancing with ease. “Dinner tonight at the Apartment of Bad Decisions. What do we need to bring again?”

“Katsuki gave us a list,” said the Kazakh, focusing on recalling the curve of the Japanese man’s writing and not on the curve on his best friend’s neck. “Apples, onions, and some kind of vegetable you won’t complain about eating.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, shifting to tighten his grip on Otabek’s shoulder. “At least those two clowns can make half-decent pork cutlet bowl pirozhkis. I’ll just load up on those tonight.”

The Kazakh smirked, relaxing his barre arm and stepping out of position. Yuri flicked at his shoulder, and the brunet huffed.

“Does Yakov know that you’re planning to cheat your diet all week, Yura?” Otabek asked, reluctantly locking his legs back into first position. Yuri scoffed.

“I’m a growing boy, sue me! Besides, it’s my birthday week. I just want some fucking cake.”

Otabek switched to second position, eyebrows raised. “My coach didn’t allow cake for my eighteenth birthday. Worlds is next month, anyway, and training diets are all about the little sacrifices.”

Yuri dropped both arms, scoffing again as he began to lower his leg. “I blame the loser lovebirds for making me watch that goddamn movie with that delicious-looking cake at the end!”

’Sixteen Candles,’ right?” Otabek smiled slightly, rounding his outer arm. “All I remember is that Camaro that the male lead had parked out on the street, because Leo de la Iglesia wanted one _just like it_.”

“That gaudy red car?” Yuri clarified, making a face. “The love interest guy was leaning all over it like a douchebag, and that red-haired chick ran down the stairs and fawned all over him. Then he made her cake _out of nowhere_. That movie was all stupid romance logic, which clearly defies human logic, Beka."

“So you’ve said,” Otabek noted, biting back a smile. Yuri laughed suddenly, leaning an elbow on the barre to kick up a leg with renewed vigor.

“I bet _JJ Leroy_ drives a douchebag red car,” the blond said matter-of-factly, bringing the leg up near his ear. The Kazakh kept his eyes on his face, because he was quickly learning that Yuri in tights was a dangerous thing. “Speaking of that loser… I started a list of potential exhibition skate songs for him yesterday that I need to show you later!”

“Anything devastatingly terrible?”

“Have you heard of a band called Nickelback?” Yuri asked, grinning darkly. “The internet hates them, and they’re awful! I bet that’s the _last thing_ Jerk Jackass would want to skate to.”

Otabek laughed as he moved his feet into third, and Yuri blinked, leg faltering slightly. “What?”

“You know how Jean Jacques and I were rink mates for a while? He held a dedicated ‘Nickelback Day’ at least twice a month, Yura. They’re a Canadian band.”

Yuri processed this new information with a frustrated sigh. “What the hell?”

“It was mildly annoying, to be fair,” Otabek admitted, lip twitching up. “I’d take them off the list if you’re trying to pick something he’d hate.”

“Maybe I’ll just make him skate to ‘Agape’ at Worlds,” the blond suggested, rising to his toes and holding the position. “JJ and the theme of unconditional love sound like a real fucking laugh.”

“He _does_ love himself unconditionally,” the older skater pointed out with a wry smile. “He probably wouldn’t give a world-record breaking performance to it, though.”

“Never forget that fact,” Yuri teased, locking his leg up with both arms. “Ready to stretch?”

Otabek wasn’t, of course, but he also wasn’t one to deny his friend any amusement. “I’m not as flexible as you, so try to remember that before you pull all of my muscles.”

The blond dropped his own leg to grab Otabek’s elbow and pull him out toward the center of the room. “I need you to carry our paintball team this week, so I won’t do anything to hurt our chances, Beka. Trust me!”

The older skater dropped to the ground, legs in front in a slight straddle, and Yuri mirrored his pose, pressing the bottoms of their shoe-clad feet together as their legs formed a diamond shape.

“You’ll have me on your team, then? I’m touched,” the Kazakh murmured, biting back a smile.

Yuri reached out with his fingers extended, silently demanding both hands. “No shit,” he replied, grinning fully. He grabbed Otabek’s hands, immediately stretching down to bring his nose to the floor between his own legs. The brunet leaned back to pick up the slack, eyes following the planes of the lithe shoulders he hadn’t been able to see during two months of Skype calls.

“Did you know that I made JJ cry the first time I played paintball? It was one of my finer moments.”

Yuri lifted his head up so fast that an elbow popped. Otabek flashed him a grin.

“Did you know that you’re my best friend?” replied the Russian, words breathless with awe, not exertion. “I’m honored to be in your presence. Holy hell, that’s priceless. Why didn’t you take a hundred pictures of that?”

“Me, take pictures?”

“Right,” Yuri remembered, arching his back cat-like. “Does your phone battery even _work_? I never see you on it, Mr. Antisocial!”

“My sister always said the same thing,” the Kazakh grinned, thinking back on years of phone neglect, “until this past December, when I met you. Now, thanks to you, my phone can barely hold a charge for more than a few hours.”

“I’m touched,” the blond echoed the earlier statement. “You’re welcome for that, Beka.”

“I _do_ love my hourly cat pictures, thanks,” Otabek admitted, pushing back on Yuri’s hands to lean forward. “Let’s switch.”

The Russian yanked hard on his hands, leaning back. Otabek was pushed violently forward with the shift in weight, and he winced at the burn in his hamstrings, not feeling nearly flexible enough to get his nose to the ground.

“So, I just remembered,” Yuri spoke up, pausing. “Lilia and Yakov are going out to the opera tonight. Let's just blow off Katsudon and Victor and stay in to cook alone.”

Otabek quirked a brow, arms locked in the stretch. "You don't think the lovebirds would mind if we blew them off?" Yuri rolled his eyes, leaning forward a little to grab onto the Kazakh’s upper arms instead.

"Who cares? Besides," he huffed, tilting forward more to pull Otabek down further, fingers tight above his elbows, "you're only here for a few days, and I want you _all to myself_."

Otabek blinked slowly at his words, breathing out into his friend’s personal space. Yuri went a little pink. 

"I mean, you know," the Russian hesitated, giving his head a shake, "everyone will be getting in tomorrow, and Victor and Katsudon are always going to be there, and we already had to deal with Mila and Lilia, and I just want something that's... something that's mine."

Otabek paused, forgetting about their current position as he lost himself in his friend's slightly widened eyes.

"I see."

"Your time, I mean," Yuri finished quickly, working his face into a scowl for good measure. "Asshole."

The younger skater pulled out of their mirrored pose, cheeks still tinged with a blush as he stood. "Sorry," he muttered, rolling his eyes. Otabek thought it was absolutely adorable. "Just forget it. Let’s eat with the disgusting couple tonight, then."

_Something that's mine._

"I am, you know," the Kazakh said suddenly. Yuri, who had been reaching down to remove a shoe, tucked an errant strand of gold behind his ear, looking up.

"Hmm?"

_Yours._

Otabek swallowed down the word. The blond eyed him carefully, waiting for a response, tee shirt slipping carelessly off-shoulder. The brunet didn’t want to be careless – he was ever patient, and Yuri was worth it.

"Nothing, Yura," he said, smiling with a shake of his head. "Since we’re staying in, let’s add pork and rice to that grocery list. I don’t think Lilia’s fridge will have everything we need to make perfect pirozhkis.”

"Yeah?" Yuri breathed out, eyes glinting. He pretended to mull over Otabek’s revised dinner plan before holding out a hand to the Kazakh.

He took it, standing up with a nod. The touch was dazing, or maybe just he stood up too quickly.

It was the former, of course.

"Yeah… are you cooking with me or not?"

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Michele Crispino owned exactly three jackets.

First, his 'Team Italy' getup, reserved for competitions and training only. Second, a black hoodie gifted to him by Sara for his seventeenth birthday that he hadn't dared part with. Third, a sporty gray number that had he picked up last year for any drafty days in his hometown.

Presently, the Italian wished more than ever that he was wearing all three at once, because St. Petersburg was _freezing._

"Mickey?"

His twin was snug against his side, steering him around every angle outside of the old cathedral. She lifted a gloved hand to poke at his cheek.

"You look freezing. Are you going to be okay to continue sightseeing?"

She peered up at him, purple eyes barely visible over the scarf cocoon she donned. Mickey wished he had thought to pack a scarf - or at least another sweater so that he could have layered up. Curses.

"I'll be fine," he assured his twin, gripping her shoulder firmly as he tried not to let any shivers show. She smiled, or at least he assumed she did, because her scarf shifted slightly around her mouth.

"Come on, then," Sara commanded, muffled, and she wrapped an arm around his back to bring him along with her. "Let's look around the other side of the church. I'd like to take some pictures before I hit the mall with Mila!"

Mickey gripped her a little bit tighter - a reflex at the thought of sharing his sister. Mila Babicheva seemed nice, though, and non-threatening. Her fashion sense raised some red flags, especially whatever she wore in that video she posted online a few days ago from her rink, but Mickey was willing to let it slide, providing his dear sister didn't come back from the shops dressed up like a floozy.

The twins circled the old building, and Mickey pulled out his phone, snapping some scenic shots and admiring the way the afternoon light peeked over the rooftop. Sara chattered on, looking snug and content, and Mickey flipped his camera around, readying the phone for a selfie of the duo.

Until it became a selfie of the trio.

"Good afternoon, my favorite twins!"

Sara laughed, reaching to push her scarf down as she gave the newcomer a one-armed hug. "Emil!"

Mickey huffed, quickly bringing his phone down. The perfect shot had been ruined. He nodded at the Czech skater in greeting, receiving a hearty thumbs-up in return. Emil was wearing fluffy mittens, Mickey noted with a mental smirk, and a huge, puffy coat, giving him the appearance of an overgrown 8-year-old.

Emil Nekola wouldn't dare put any moves on his sister in that getup, no way, no how.

"C'mon, Mickey, take that selfie," Sara encouraged, bringing her twin's phone back up. She moved to the center of the shot, slinging one arm around each male as she smiled into the lens. Mickey quirked his frown upward, getting as much of the cathedral in the background as he could when he took the picture.

"We all look great!" Emil grinned widely, pulling the twins into an overly squishy hug. Mickey grimaced, mentally figuring out a way to pry his way out of this situation and bring Sara along with him.

"Sara," he started, teeth chattering slightly, "where did you want to-"

Emil frowned, moving in closer. "Mickey, are you cold? I can help with that."

The Italian paused, brow furrowing, and he watched the Czech pull something out of one of his many pockets - a scarf.

"Here," Emil smiled, holding up the black strip of fabric. It looked extremely soft and warm. "I brought an extra! Let me put it on you."

Mickey tried to protest, but there was simply no time, because the taller skater moved quick. In a flash, he was bundled and wrapped, feeling... a lot warmer, actually.

"I," he said, blinking in surprise, "thanks."

"Always happy to help you out, Mickey!"

Sara took a step back from the two, smiling slightly. "Mila should be almost ready to shop. I think I'm going to head to her place."

Mickey blinked, shoulders slumping slightly. "But… but we barely just got here, Sara!"

The female skater shrugged, reaching up to brush a hand over the top of his shoulder. She smirked up at her brother. " _Emil_ just arrived, though. Why don't you two carry on without me? I’m sure that’ll be fun!"

"But-"

"You look so warm and comfy now, it's adorable," she cooed, giving his cheek a little smack. He frowned, ready to protest, but Emil grabbed at Mickey’s arm that was still clutching his phone.

"Great idea, Sara," the Czech exclaimed. He gave Sara a fuzzy thumbs-up, which she returned. "One last selfie before you go?"

She sidled back in with a nod, and Emil grabbed at Mickey's hand, controlling his phone. The Italian skater pulled at his scarf with his free hand as his camera angle was being adjusted. It smelled woodsy, he noted, and comforting.

"I'll see you two at the rink in a few hours," Sara grinned, stepping away once more after the second shot was taken. "Yuri and JJ are picking teams tonight when we all meet up, remember, so let's hope we can all be together!"

"Right," Mickey nodded, blinking out of his stupor. "Have fun with Mila, Sara. Be careful!"

She winked, and she was gone in a flash. Also in a flash, Mickey realized Emil was still gripping onto his hand. Well, his phone.

He pulled away, and Emil beamed down at him. "Are you going to post that picture? I plan on taking tons tonight with everyone, and then at the hotel after. Let's go see some more sights now! Are you hungry? Ready to go, Mickey?"

Mickey breathed out, black scarf amplifying the sound. This was going to be quite an adventure.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Minami Kenjirou’s incredible good luck started when he arrived in Russia, and his luggage did _not_.

Crestfallen at the time, he took note of his on-hand belongings, which included his wallet, a Japanese-Russian phrasebook, and a smartphone charged to 27%. He frowned, stepping out of the Saint Petersburg airport in mild panic as he hailed a cab.

The driver spoke broken English, and Minami was relieved by that since he spent his entire flight looking up ‘how to’ guides on paintball instead of learning common Russian phrases. The Japanese skater strapped himself in as he rattled off the rink address from his dying phone, and off they went.

Minutes passed in silence, and traffic was torturous.

Minami stayed glued to his phone for the most part, searching through #yuripturns16 when an idea struck him. He opened his camera from Instagram, lowering the shot to a Russian ad on the back of the cab seat. He propped his feet up slightly, getting the bottom of his ‘Team Japan’ track pants in the picture, as well.

Perfect!

The skater grinned, pulling his phone back up to eye level to caption the shot with a ‘help, stranded and luggage-less in Saint Petersburg!’ when he saw a flash of blue, white, and red pass somewhere beside the huge line of cars in front of his cab.

It was a ‘Team Russia’ jacket.

Minami took a closer look, recognizing its wearer immediately due to her signature hair. They’d never met in person, of course, but they were due at the same location in a few hours, and it was worth a shot. He rolled down his side window, ignoring the protests of the driver.

“Hey!” the Japanese skater called out. “Mila Babicheva, hey!”

The redhead turned, focusing in on the source of the noise, and beside her, a pretty brunette’s head whipped around. She said something to Mila that Minami couldn’t quite make out, and both women smiled. It was the brunette who put down a heavy-looking bag before jogging over to his taxi door, and, close up, the Japanese skater recognized her as Sara Crispino, one of the Italian twins.

“You’re Minami Kenjirou, right?” she asked, inclining her head. “I’m Sara! Mila and I were just doing some shopping – wanna come with?”

It took Minami less than five seconds to weigh his options. He could either stay in this miserable traffic jam for another hour, or, he could accompany the two most beautiful women’s figure skating medalists on their mall trip. Hmm…

“Thanks!” the driver said a minute later as Minami dumped a handful of rubles into his grasp. He rolled the window up, enthused probably by the combination of the generous tip and the insanely attractive Italian who gave him a friendly wave, and Minami made his way over with Sara to the side of the road where Mila stood, waiting patiently.

“Welcome to Russia!” the redhead greeted him, mussing up his hair. “Nice to meet you, and- hey, where’s your luggage? You just got here, right?”

Minami shrugged, sighing. “The airline lost it. I’m sure it’ll get to me eventually, but I’m just not sure when!”

“So,” Mila crossed her arms, looking pensive, “you’re saying you don’t have any other clothing to wear this week, or toiletries, or anything?”

“None,” he confirmed, groaning at the thought. Sara slung an arm around his shoulders, catching him by surprise.

“What do you say, Kenjirou?” the brunette skater smirked down at him, giving him a friendly squeeze. “We’re at the best mall around… you up for a little shopping spree?”

Mila grinned. Sara grinned. Minami grinned back.

Two hours and almost 20,000 rubles (yikes!) later, the trio was surrounded by bags and seated in the one place that Mila had sworn was heaven on Earth…

The nail salon.

“So I said to him, I said ‘ _Mickey_ ,’” Sara started, fidgeting a little in her chair as her toes were buffed, “’you look so _comfy and warm_ now,’ exactly like that!”

“You just ran off, leaving him with Nekola?” Mila gasped, laughing. “God, I’d _love_ a picture of his face.”

“Well, there’s one on Mickey’s phone in front of the church. He looked so lost and vulnerable in that scarf, seriously,” she described, tossing her dark hair with a giggle.

The redhead grinned before reaching over to tap Minami with a freshly painted fingernail. “What do you think, Minami – scarves, hot or not?”

“In this weather? Necessary,” he answered, wiggling his toes with laughter as the pedicurist skimmed his heel with a buffer. “I need to get one of those from the next store we hit. I’m glad this paintball arena tomorrow will be completely enclosed, though, because a _few_ scarves might be better than just one!”

“You get used to the cold eventually,” said Mila. She blinked, seeming to remember something. “Hey… this afternoon would be a perfect time to pick out a birthday present for Yurio!”

Sara gave a little hum, keeping her feet absolutely still as the nails were meticulously coated orange. “Were you thinking of anything in particular?”

“Actually, yeah,” Mila replied. “He broke his good headphones a few days ago at the rink, so I was thinking I’d pick out a really nice pair from the electronics shop a few stores down.”

Minami whistled. “That sounds like a great gift!”

“Also, Victor and Yuuri are giving him sweaters, so I _really_ just wanted to top that.”

Sara laughed. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem, girl!”

A thought struck Minami, and he grinned so eagerly that he almost kicked the lady working on his toes. “I noticed Yuri really likes cats, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mila confirmed, chuckling behind her drying fingers. “Half of his closet is leopard print!”

“Victor and Yuuri have the right idea with some new sweaters, then,” Sara chimed in, leaning back in her chair. Minami grinned at the duo.

“Well,” he said, continuing excitedly, “they sell these headphones that look exactly like cat ears, and they come in lots of different colors – they light up and everything! I bet that electronics store has them!”

Mila raised both eyebrows, impressed. Sara nodded her approval.

“Minami Kenjirou,” the redhead said, giving him a nod of agreement, “you may be on to something.”

It turns out he was on to something – grating on it. That is, himself, Mila, and Sara were grating on Yuri Plisetsky’s last nerve when they arrived at the rink a _little_ late for team selection.

“We’re barely ten minutes late, Yurio,” Mila explained gleefully, extremely unaffected by the fuming young Russian that was freaking Minami out. “We even got you presents, so you can’t be mad!”

Yuri calmed down at ‘presents,’ bringing the rage down to a simmering level, and he turned on his heel with an eyeroll. Phichit laughed from the corner of the lounge, looking sideways to address a certain notorious Canadian. 

"Is it time, JJ? I think we’re all ready to go."

Jean Jacques Leroy smirked. Minami gulped at his expression.

"Ready to pick a second-place team, kitten?" the Canadian turned, voice teasing as he addressed Yuri. The blond glared daggers, looking ready to pounce, and this was the night Minami learned quickly why the skating community deemed the gold medalist feline-like.

"I won't settle for second to you ever again," came the unforgiving response. "Barcelona should have proven that, shithead."

"Can we start the team picking now?" Christophe interrupted from his corner comfy chair, lashes lowered. His feet were kicked up elegantly, almost threatening to inch Seung-gil Lee further into his nearby seat. "I have some fine shots of Russian vodka with my name on them tonight in the first seedy bar I can find."

"Being hungover tomorrow won't do you any favors in the arena, Christophe," the tall Czech named Emil advised from the arm of a nearby chair. "Though I should be fine to drink… I could play paintball with my eyes closed!" Minami turned to him, noting the mischief in his beard, the sparkle in his eyes, the-

"Just don't get any ideas," said Michele Crispino warningly, tilting his chin to look up at the Czech from the chair he was perched on. His gaze lingered on his sister, slightly masked by a black, comfy-looking scarf as he looked between the bearded skater and his dark-haired twin. Minami remembered the conversation at the nail salon and bit back his laughter.

Yuri cleared his throat, piercing eyes sweeping the room as he counted. Everyone fell silent. "Okay, all sixteen of us are _finally_ here. We’ll do an eight and eight split. Two teams, two colors. I'll take blue, and Leroy can take red. Sound good?"

"Fine with me," JJ nodded.

"That was rhetorical, but thanks for your unnecessary input," the Russian continued, smirking slightly. JJ snorted, somewhat amused. This was clearly about to be a sass-match of epic proportions, Minami noted. 

"I'll pick first," the Canadian said smoothly. 

"Like hell you will. It's my birthday," Yuri reasoned, hissing like an angry cat.

Another brilliant thought struck Minami.

"How about a coin flip? I have one here," he heard himself say eagerly. Fifteen pairs of eyes turned toward him. The Japanese teen smiled, rather nervous, and fished out one of his last rubles to hold up to the group.

"Seems fair," the Japanese Yuuri piped up, and Minami held back a blush as they locked eyes. Wow, was he stunning! "Both of your exhibition skates are equally on the line, after all."

JJ looked toward Minami, sizing up the coin option. "Fine," he shrugged, tousling his dark hair. "Sounds good to me. Plisetsky, you in? I'll even let you call it."

"Fine," Yuri echoed, waving a hand. He gestured to Minami. "Kenjirou, flip it."

Minami stood up, attempting to wedge himself out from between the female skaters. Sara smirked at his valiant efforts. Mickey, not so much. He readied the ruble, preparing for a toss.

"Heads," Yuri declared once the coin was spinning, and Minami grabbed it, dropping it down to his arm. The group craned their necks to see.

"Heads it is," Minami notified the skaters, and, sure enough, a face was gleaming up at them. Yuri smirked triumphantly, stepping back to move to wall opposite JJ.

"Beka," the blond declared, wasting no time with his first pick, and the mysterious Otabek Altin stepped forward, joining the blue team. Minami saw the pair exchange soft smiles, and was surprised to see the fierce tiger momentarily turn into a baby kitten. He didn't know much about Otabek, but the Japanese skater figured he had some kind of magic, voodoo calming power over the typically angry Yuri.

Cute!

"Smart move," JJ noted, inclining his head. Sapphire swept the room before he heartily declared, "Victor!"

The five-time World Champion's mouth dropped open. Minami's mouth dropped open, too, but probably not for the same reasons… what an unstoppable pair, Victor and JJ! He was feeling quite star struck this evening.

"Really," Victor said, less of a question and more of a flat statement. JJ grinned wider, crooking his finger at the Russian.

"Red team, assemble!"

Victor walked slowly toward the Canadian, staring him down with a brow quirked. JJ was unwavering in his grin.

"You know who to pick next, right?" the Russian said to JJ, running a hand through his silver hair. Minami caught Yuuri’s fond smile out of the corner of his eye… well, corner was a lie, because he’d be full-on staring at the older Japanese man with admiration in his heart for the last two minutes, but no one else needed to know that.

Russian Yuri grinned, halfway to wicked. He pointed straight at Yuuri. "Katsudon. Blue team, get over here."

Victor breathed in sharply, gaze moving over to his young rink mate. "I'm disowning you."

"You're not my dad," the blond replied smartly, clapping Yuuri on the shoulder as he made his way over to the correct wall. "Welcome to the winning side."

"Thanks," the Japanese skater smiled shyly. He locked eyes with his fiancé, giving him a shrug. Christophe clutched at his heart from the couch with a whine, and Minami almost felt the raw pain himself. Lovers – so close, yet so far!

"My man, Leo," JJ chose next, and the two shared grins and a fist-bump. 

"Mila," Yuri picked, inclining his chin toward the redhead. She skipped over with the clear intention of going in for a hug-turned-headlock, but Yuri batted her away. "Don't let me down, baba!"

"Wouldn't dream of letting us lose," she promised, poking at his cheek. "You deserve to get _everything you want_ for your birthday!"

Mila winked somewhere in the direction of Otabek. He remained stoic as JJ rubbed at his chin, thoughtful.

"You're _clearly_ picking your friends," the Canadian observed, raising a thick brow. "Meanwhile, I'm picking based on skill."

"I haven't played paintball for 28 years," Victor spoke up hollowly, eyes still on Yuuri.

"Hey! I'm pretty sure I have more _skill_ than you, JJ," Mila accused, cocking a hip.

"Sara," came JJ's next pick. Mickey looked ready to spit nails.

"Wise choice," the Italian beamed, flouncing her way over to the red team side. She blew a teasing kiss to Mila, then gave Minami a wink. The Canadian laughed.

It was already four versus four, Minami noticed. The red team was currently assembled of Jean Jacques, Victor, Leo, and Sara, while the blue team contained Yuri, Otabek, Yuuri, and Mila.

Would he be chosen soon?

"Nekola," Yuri called out, gesturing to Emil. "You know your stuff, right? Prove it."

The Czech skater grinned. "Aye aye, Captain!"

"Let's go with," JJ scanned the remaining skaters, eyes darting, "Seung-gil! Come over here, man!"

The Korean merely stared for a bit, then stood up silently. Minami was afraid to breathe too loudly. Tension, much?

"No hard feelings?" the Canadian confirmed, sticking out a hand as a peace offering. Right - the Four Continent's biggest rivalry. Seung-gil stared at the hand, wordless, before clasping it in his own.

"No hard feelings," he repeated after a moment. They locked eyes, and the Korean offered what would be considered a half-smile if you squinted just right. "Let's win together, then."

"Alright," JJ agreed, grin lighting up the room. Yuri rolled his eyes at the display.

"Kenjirou."

Minami heard his own name, didn't he? He clapped a hand over his mouth, stopping a startled squeak. The Russian raised a brow as he semi-patiently waited for the Japanese teenager to get the hell over to his side of the room.

Once his legs were noticeably working, Minami joined the blue side, nudging himself between Otabek and Yuuri, and he beamed.

Best day ever, hands-down.

Yuri's final two picks were Christophe and Michele, and JJ ended up selecting Phichit, Guang Hong, and, last but certainly not least, because his coif was on-point, wow... Georgi.

"Great," JJ spoke up as the eldest Russian skater sauntered over to his side, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. "These are the final teams! Let's talk strategy, eh?”

"I have something for us first," Phichit announced to the room, making a mad grab for his bag. "Hashtag yuripturns16 fans have been generous over the last few weeks, and I've acquired something that could definitely be useful for our game!"

Guang Hong peeked over the Thai skater's shoulder as a flurry of red and blue was suddenly scattered to the floor. He yelped in surprise, and Minami did too.

"Are those… bandanas?" Minami asked, thrilled. "Eight of each color?"

"Exactly," Phichit confirmed, grinning. "Make sure to wear one tomorrow!" 

"Wonderful," Georgi remarked, twisting a red one around his neck as if it were a designer kerchief.

"Hell, yeah," Leo agreed, pulling a red bandana over his forehead. "Now all we need is some war paint!"

"We should all paint Js on our faces for team JJ," the Canadian pointed out, completely serious.

"Help me," Victor mouthed toward all of the blue team. Yuuri laughed.

"It'd be a good look on you, Vitya."

Victor pouted. Minami mentally quavered.

"So, rules," Emil presented, waving a hand. "Capture-the-flag style, yes? The first team to get the opponent's flag to their team captain wins. If the team captain gets eliminated, the other team wins by default."

"That seems... harsh?" Yuri said, a, uncharacteristic flicker of worry crossing his face.

"Don't worry so much, Plisetsky," Leo chuckled, adding to Emil's explanation. "It'll take three shots to eliminate you, captain. For everyone that isn't a captain, it only takes a single shot."

"A single shot?" Mickey interjected, crossing his arms with a frown. "This game could be over quickly, then."

Leo shrugged, fiddling with his red bandana. "The arena is huge, and people can definitely miss."

"Okay, let me get this straight," Phichit remarked, tapping his chin with a red-tied hand. "We should guard the team captain to the best of our ability, and also run _like hell_ to the other side to find the enemy flag before the other team finds ours?"

"Exactly," Emil affirmed, beaming. "That's the gist of it!"

"We get communication devices for this, right?" Guang Hong asked, flushing with eagerness. "It's gotta be like a cop thing, or a spy movie, or something!"

"We'll definitely rent some walkie talkies tomorrow," Leo nodded at his friend. They shared a grin. "That's the best part!"

"Interesting," said Seung-gil, looking a little giddy himself. Minami marveled at his team, ready to pass out in excitement.

“I’d also like to note that tomorrow night, after the match and sightseeing and whatever else everyone wants to do, Yuuri and I are throwing Yurio a birthday party at our shared apartment, and everyone is invited!” Victor added, clapping twice.

Georgi slapped a hand on his face, groaning. Phichit whooped, and Yuuri sighed.

“It was supposed to be a _surprise_ party, Vitya,” the Russian’s fiancé chuckled, still seemingly endeared. “You must have forgotten that part, huh?”

Even Yuri didn’t have the anger within him to call the silver-haired man out for forgetfulness. It was a party for him, after all!

“Good color choice for you, Minami,” Mila slunk in close, placing a manicured hand on the young skater’s shoulder. “You must be psychic or something.”

Everyone looked confused at her words, so Minami reached down to untie his shoelaces.

Instead of an awkward cab shot of his scrunched-up feet in the backseat, Instagram got one of his exposed feet, toes looking flashy. They had been painted the correct color indeed.

#blueteam #readytowintomorrow

#yuripturns16

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

“My name,” slurred the Swiss skater, giving his phone camera an intense stare, “is Christophe Giacometti, and this could very well be the _final night of my life_.”

“Mine, too,” lamented the man beside him, easing into the frame, and Chris allowed his phone to be tilted in accommodation. “My name is Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov, and I don’t think I’ll be surviving the war tomorrow.”

Chris paused. He looked toward Victor, squinting slightly. “Vic… I don’t think you’re married yet.”

“I may have one night left, Chris, just let me _test out_ the name. It really rolls off the tongue!”

“Indeed, it does,” the Swiss agreed, giving the lens a thoughtful nod. He took a second to smooth down his blond curls, checking his reflection in the camera image before continuing. “Vic and I,” he motioned between them, placing an unsteady hand on his friend’s shoulder, “Vic and I decided we needed to take lots of shots.”

“Like alcoholic ones. Not paintball ones. Okay, also those.”

“Right,” Chris clarified, dragging out the word. “Booze tonight, paint tomorrow, no?”

“Also,” Victor piped up, slamming a ring-clad hand down on the bar for no particular reason. “I am here to fraternize with the enemy and gain inside info about ‘Team Yurio.’”

Christophe tipped his vodka back, and Victor leaned over, pouting. That face was oh so familiar. He’d spent years cheering that face up.

“Chris, can we trade teams? JJ is so,” the Russian whined, dropping his voice suddenly as if the Canadian were there to hear, “so weird!”

“Plisetsky is scary, though,” Chris shuddered, eyes wide open. He tipped his head back in thought. “I think he’s descended from a long line of ancient cats.”

Victor began to giggle, and the Swiss man gave his back a gentle tap. "Yurio is completely harmless. It's just a ‘tough guy’ front!"

“I think his claws could kill a man.”

“He doesn’t have claws, Chris!”

“Why are you laughing?” the Swiss man bit his lip, waving the camera frantically at this point. God, he was so tipsy that he nearly elbowed his old friend in the face. “Why am I laughing? Why is your coach staring at us from across the bar?”

Chris didn’t know much about Yakov, except that he deserved a thousand gold medals for putting up with too many melodramatic Russians. Was there something in the vodka here? He pushed his glass away, snorting at the thought right as Victor lifted his eyes, mouth going slack. His friend slammed both hands down on the counter, and Chris redirected his camera to the action that was surely about to unfold.

“Yakov,” the Russian skater stage-whispered, though it was more of a yell to those still sober. “Hey, Yakov!”

Chris leaned forward, resting his chin on Victor’s shoulder as he zoomed in toward the elderly Russian coach. Said elderly Russian coach did not look very happy. Said elderly Russian coach pulled a newspaper from apparent thin air and settled down behind it, effectively blocking himself from camera view.

“No one loves me,” Victor sighed, plucking the phone out of Chris’ hand. “I’m drunk, I have to take orders from a narcissistic Canadian tomorrow, and no one loves me.”

“I do,” Chris said, leaning over to kiss his cheek with a friendly smack of lips. “Vic, you’re my boo, and you’re the most modest narcissist I know. Never forget that!”

Victor went from sad to thrilled in two seconds flat, bringing the camera close to his face as he nuzzled into the Swiss skater’s shoulder. “Christopher Giacometti is the bravest man I know, and he will lead Team Yurio to its failure tomorrow _with pride_."

Chris pulled away, dramatically offended. "Well, I never..."

"Hah," exclaimed Victor, signaling for another round of shots before something caught his eye. “Wow!”

Oh, lord.

The five-time champion rose his voice once more, tinging it with attempted seduction. "Why, hello there, handsome! Come here often?"

The Swiss man choked on a laugh. He heard a disapproving rustle of printed paper from the corner booth.

Yuuri Katsuki gave the pair a flat look as he took his card from the bartender from a few seats away. The Russian skater giggled more. 

"Really? I was in the bathroom for five minutes tops, Victor.”

"They're so married," Chris sighed into the camera, giving his best wink. In the background of his shot, Victor was stumbling halfway over to his fiancé, ready to cuddle on one barstool. "Who's ready for the face-off tomorrow? Personally, I'm hedging my bets on Yuri winning and choosing an intense exhibition song for the Canadian King. What do you think, my fans? Should he choose 'Intoxicated?'"

He smiled, blowing one last kiss before shutting off the phone. "Because that’s what I am right now!"

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Yuuri Katsuki had dropped everything to move to Russia, and he had done so without looking back. He had been welcomed with open arms - to Victor's apartment, to Victor's rink, to Victor's circle of friends...

But even this was a little overboard.

"Hold still, Yuuri," the oldest Russian skater murmured, slowly caressing the area right underneath blue-rimmed glasses.

"Sorry," the Japanese man apologized, looking anywhere but in front of him. "It tickles, Georgi."

The Russian finished, pulling away with a happy clap of coal-streaked hands, and Yuuri looked at his reflection in the handheld mirror. There were two perfectly black streaks on each cheek.

"Which Russian did I forget?" Georgi asked, scanning the other fifteen faces. Yuuri locked eyes with a certain blond burrowing himself a little further behind a certain Kazakh’s back, and he realized he was feeling a little daring today.

"Yurio?" the Japanese skater said softly, and Georgi turned.

"Right, the birthday boy!" he gasped. "Yurochka, let me do you next."

Yuuri laughed as the youngest Russian stalked over, ignoring the daggers being glared his way. The blond hissed as Georgi brought a thumb to his cheekbone.

"I don't see the point. We're about to put masks on anyway, right? Our faces will be covered."

"Not our cheeks," Yuuri mentioned, pushing his glasses up a little. The blond gave his head a defiant little shake.

"Hey, nice hair, Yurio!" Victor pointed out, arms full of walkie talkies as he jogged over with a face already smudged black. "It's cute the way you weaved the bandana into the braid."

"Huh? It's not cute," came the reply, snappy as usual as the Russian Yuri ran a thumb over the blue fabric entwined in his hair. "It's badass."

Yuuri reached out to grab half of Victor's armful of electronics, receiving a quick forehead kiss for his trouble. He was 99% sure the resounding 'aww!' came from Minami. Leo and Guang Hong returned to the center line after a few minutes, arms loaded down with ammo and masks, and Phichit followed, practically skipping with a bagful of guns slung over a shoulder.

"I think we've got everything, yes?" asked Emil, eyes scanning over the supplies, which were now in a neat pile. Yuuri bent down to pick up one of the blue walkie talkies. They were, luckily, labeled in English.

"The two settings here are," the Japanese man read off the text over the dial, addressing the skaters, "'team' and 'all.'"

"'Team' chat to talk strategy, then," JJ spoke up, twin painted Js standing out against his tan cheekbones. Georgi had been generous toward his red team captain with his makeup stash. "'All' chat for taunting enemies or making important announcements to all of us, eh?"

"Sounds right," Leo confirmed, grabbing a red walkie. He mashed the button down after turning his dial to 'team.’ "Leader JJ, come in... I see can their flag, I repeat, the blue flag is in sight." 

JJ scrambled over to the pile, grabbing a red device. "Loud and clear, over," he replied, voice crackling from only half of the sixteen devices. "This is the King speaking, who is this?"

"King, this is the Red Knight incoming, here to rescue the... flag." Leo bit back a giggle, continuing. Seung-gil snorted from a few feet away. "Your Majesty, I lay down my sword for you."

"That'll do, that'll do, my loyal knight," JJ nodded at the American, switching his dial to 'all' chat. "Everyone, make sure you keep an eye out for codename Sweet Sixteen. His claws are coming out."

The group fell silent. "'Sweet Sixteen?'" Victor mouthed to Yuuri, holding back quiet laughter.

Everyone turned to look at Yuri. Sour-faced, the young Russian grabbed his own blue walkie, pressing the button with more force than ever necessary.

"If anyone on my team uses nicknames," he said flatly, glaring right at JJ, "I will grab a red team gun and _shoot you myself_."

"So cocky for someone whose exhibition skate is on the line," Christophe taunted, having already picked up a blue walkie himself.

"I have a moderate amount of faith in my team - which includes you, Giacometti, so don’t forget it," Yuri growled pointedly, hand on the walkie button once more. He rolled his eyes, releasing his grip. "Fuck it, we're all right here, I'm not using this right now. The only nickname allowed is _Jerk Jackass_ , because he's public enemy number one."

“What about ‘Katsudon,’ then?” Yuuri spoke up innocently. “That’s a nickname.”

Yuri squinted at him, and Yuuri flashed him a slow smile. “Katsudon is your real name, Katsudon.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Fucking- _you nicknamed me first, dammit_! My name isn’t Yurio!”

Phichit laughed, reaching up to clip his own walkie talkie to his shoulder strap, button pressing as he turned to his team captain. "King, this is the Prince here, at your service. Confirmed, the Kitten of Russia has his claws out, over."

"Ice Tiger," Otabek corrected, looking casual while leaned against a tree, the arm behind his head tied with a blue bandana. Yuri pursed his lips, looking slightly mollified.

"Okay, so," Yuuri interjected, turning serious. "Can we go over the rules once more? This arena is huge, and I want to make sure we figure everything out before we separate."

"I've got this," Leo said, clearing his throat. "Yeah, this place is a few hundred thousand square feet... pretty much just an insanely huge forest. We’re talking multiple football fields here! There's an even split of land on each side of this line," he gestured to the ground, toes grazing the solid white marking. "Plisetsky's blue team will take the left side, and hide their blue flag there, and Leroy's red team will take the right."

Christophe dug his way into the pile, pulling out two brightly colored triangles - one red, one blue. "I've got the flags," he said, giving the fabric a twirl. "What are the rules for hiding them going to be?"

"Not fully buried, and not hidden within something that needs to be opened. As long as the flag is in plain sight from _some_ angle when passed, it'll work. A _person_ also can’t be the flag’s initial chosen hiding spot, but I figured everyone knew that," Emil informed, waving his hands in explanation.

"The shooting part, though."

Yuuri whirled around at the sound of Otabek's voice. The Kazakh leaned forward, pushing off from his spot against the tree and making his way over to the supplies. "One shot on everyone to eliminate, and three to Jean and Yura. No headshots, also, that’s illegal in this game. Correct?"

"Yep, headshots aren’t allowed," confirmed Leo, sizing Otabek up as he twirled a rifle between fingers with ease. He grinned at his old rinkmate. “Remember, the game ends when a captain is eliminated, or when a captain is successfully holding the flag of the other team’s color. So… who’s ready?”

Twenty minutes had passed since that conversation.

Yuuri had split off toward the blue team’s wooded area alongside Yurio, Christophe, Minami, Emil, Mickey, Mila, and Otabek. Mickey was the one to hide the blue flag – concealed partially in a grounded log, where it could only be seen if someone ran past it, looking carefully. The log was reasonably far back in the forested area, and Yuuri felt pretty confident about their chances.

Well… he felt confident in the abilities of Emil and Otabek to carry the team, with everyone else playing with spirited enthusiasm to make up for lack of skill.

“Jean Jacques,” Mickey spoke into his walkie, set on ‘all,’ “do you read us? Our flag is hidden, and we’re ready to start. What’s the status of your red team?”

A few moments ticked by, then an answer was received.

“King here,” the red captain answered. Yuri wrinkled his nose at the nickname. “Our flag is hidden as well. We’re ready to start. Anyone who gets shot, drop your gun immediately and tell the group you’re out over ‘all’ speak. The rest of us still in can definitely use an audience!”

“Unless _you’re_ down first,” Otabek chimed in, holding down his own button with a slight smirk. JJ laughed.

“Dare to dream… was that you, Altin? I’ll be coming for you first!”

“Fuck you, JJ,” Yuri jabbed at his own button. Despite the fire in his voice, Yuuri noted the excitement flashing behind the eyes of the young Russian skater. He smiled, grabbing for his device.

“Well, let’s start, shall we?” the Japanese skater declared timidly, looking around at his other seven teammates for confirmation. Minami nodded fervently, giving Yuuri a gloved ‘okay’ sign. “Good luck, and may the best team win.”

They had discussed a plan, of course, whispering while looking for a solid hiding spot for the flag – Yuuri and Christophe would head to the center line first, prepared to check for any movement and moving in as close as possible to the center line, while Mickey stayed near the log area to guard the flag.

“I can do this,” Yuuri reassured himself as he crept forward, the older man right beside him.

They stepped from tree to tree, hiding behind large trunks and tiptoeing as quietly as their feet would allow. Chris was shoeless, Yuuri noted, clad in only a pair of knee high socks (and camouflage short shorts, but no one was very surprised), so his stealth game was on-point. The Swiss skater adjusted his mask, a pair of goggles guarding the eyes and the nose, almost like one would wear snorkeling, and Yuuri was reminded of the tightness on his own face, glasses pressed into the bridge of his nose by the rubber and plastic.

The Japanese man gripped his gun tighter, loaded and at the ready. What he wasn’t ready for? The sound of Phichit’s voice, barely a whisper.

Chris stopped moving, hearing exactly what Yuuri was hearing – an enemy. He breathed out, clutching Yuuri’s arm behind their current tree trunk. “Do my ears deceive me, or is that Chu? Someone’s sneaking to our side, and they’re doing it fast.”

Yuuri nodded, gripping his rifle tighter. “We should probably go get him, then.” Chris smirked, determined, and the pair stepped out quickly, ready to shoot.

Nothing, and then… _Victor_ ran forward in a blur, red bandana tied around his own weapon as he gave a hearty war cry. Yuuri blanched for a second, surprised to see his fiancé (looking adorable, might he add), but Christophe had it all under control.

“Nothing personal, Vic,” taunted Chris, firing the first shot of the game with enthusiasm. The Russian dodged the blue paintball, pirouetting a little in the air.

“I’ve got this!” Phichit’s voice rang out, louder this time, and Yuuri saw him race to join his silver-haired teammate in an instant, rifle pointed right at him. Alarmed, Yuuri aimed and fired, darting out of the way as he did so.

It took six shots of zigzagging randomly and ducking low, but the Japanese skater splattered his best friend with blue on a kneecap. Phichit dropped his gun immediately, laughing and faking imminent death, and Yuuri barely noticed Victor making his way further into blue team territory, stealthy.

Between the Thai skater’s ‘I’ve been mortally wounded!’ from the walkies and Chris’ frustrated cries of not being able to hit his own old best friend, Yuuri heard Victor behind him a little too late.

He felt the muzzle of the rifle pressed into his back, followed by a sultry whisper.

“Any last words, darling?”

Yuuri whirled in an instant, surprised, and the force of it knocked the gun right out of Victor’s hands. His fiancé gave a started shriek, caught off guard, and Chris took the opportunity to drop his own gun (‘ugh, screw this!’) and tackle the Russian to the ground. Phichit laughed, halfway to tears as the blue paint from his knee spotted the ground.

Leo was the one to break up the giggle-fest.

The American skater rushed in from the red team’s side of the white line, eyes grazing over the scene as he delivered a single red shot that hit Christophe square in the back. The Swiss man moaned with disappointment, still gripping Victor, and Yuuri backed up quickly, zigzagging even harder to get behind the nearest tree.

“Yuuri, I’m coming for you first!” Victor called out after him, and Yuuri bit his lip, unable to hold back the snark as he caught his breath behind the tree.

“You always do.”

He barely had time to blush at his own implication or hear Chris’ loud peal of laughter before a flash of dark clothing topped with red and blond zoomed by – the other Japanese skater.

“I’ve got Victor, just wait!” screeched Minami, and Yuuri heard two shots before _someone’s_ rifle was cast to the ground. He didn’t dare come out from behind the tree, opting to stay as still as possible.

Minami groaned. Leo must have hit him right on the mark, Yuuri assumed.

“Tough luck, blue,” came the American’s voice over ‘all’ chat. “That’s two of you down, and Katsuki is next!”

He waited with baited breath, clinging to the bark. A few minutes passed in near silence. Maybe it was safe to move? Yuuri bit his lip determinedly, pushing off from the tree.

He peeked out over the side, coming face-to-face with an enemy he didn’t expect.

“Boo,” came the voice of JJ. The Canadian jabbed his rifle right at Yuuri’s chest, and red paint burst out all over his tee shirt as he fired off a shot.

Darn.

Jean Jacques grinned. Yuuri frowned, opening his mouth to declare his status via walkie, when another cry entered the fray.

“Oi, shithead!”

He looked to his right sharply, where two more teammates were running on the scene. The Russian Yuri shot, once, twice, three times, and the final shot connected with JJ’s lower back. The blond and his Kazakh friend backpedaled slightly, out of breath, and the blond darted backward quickly after the shot hit its mark.

“JJ has one shot painted on him,” Otabek declared into his walkie talkie, and it rang out to all eight teammates. “Two to go.”

The Canadian gritted his teeth, raising his rifle toward the blue team’s captain. Victor joined JJ’s side, and in an instant, he was down – sniped by Yuri in the chest.

“Goddamn,” Yuri practically giggled, triumphant as he leapt gracefully away into some underbrush, “I’m good at this shit!”

“Beginner’s luck, kitten!” JJ called after him, lining up a shot. His aim was true, and Yuri was painted right on the chest with red.

Cue an angry screech. It took Yuuri a few seconds to regain hearing in his left ear.

JJ tried to shoot again, dodging easily out of the way as Otabek attempted retaliation with his own blue paint. The two best friends managed to slip away mostly unharmed.

“This is Yuuri Katsuki,” he narrated into his device as JJ retreated as well. Leo, he just remembered, had vanished somewhere unknown during the last few minutes. “On the blue team, I’ve been shot, as well as Christophe and Minami. Red team has Victor and Phichit eliminated. JJ and Yurio both have one shot each. Do with that information what you will… and good luck, Yurio.”

“Yuuri,” came Phichit’s voice from some yards away, and the Japanese skater responded by crawling out from behind the tree and making his way over. His Thai friend was on the ground, smiling up at him from between Minami and Victor. Christophe was huddled in a ball, shorts riding up obscenely. Yuuri grinned.

Well, this isn’t so bad.

“Wow,” he said, pushing his mask up and off his head, “that was intense.”

“I think de la Iglesia broke my back,” Christophe murmured, sighing. “If I can’t compete in Worlds next month, I’m going to have his head!”

Yuuri laughed, and the five men huddled together in a makeshift circle. The red paint was cold against his chest, but Victor wrapped him in his arms, and everything seemed a little bit warmer.

Five minutes later, Yuuri was mid-video, holding up his phone with Victor curled around him as Phichit rattled off impressions of skaters over his walkie talkie. Minami stifled his giggles behind a fist as the Thai did a solid Michele Crispino.

“Chulanont,” came Sara’s voice in a flat whisper. “I know my brother, and that is definitely not what he sounds like. Points for effort, but no, just no. You’re out. Sign off!”

Mickey spoke up, sounding panicked. “This is Mickey to ‘all,’ and no, I just want to clarify that no one has taken the flag, I repeat, _no one has taken the flag_. What is going on, and – Sara, was that you? Please play safely, I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Dammit, Mickey!”

Yuuri laughed, dropping backward to the leaf-covered ground as his camera rolled on, and the game continued.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Seung-gil Lee remembered how the silver had felt in his grasp as he stood on the podium at Four Continents. He had refused to look up and to his left the entire time.

He remembered how the champagne had felt in his hand at the banquet after, heavier than it should.

…Until he saw Jean Jacques Leroy screeching into a phone, drunk as a mother, Phichit Chulanont egging him on.

Bitter indifference had turned into curiosity and amusement, because Leroy was making a fool of himself in front of all the coaches and sponsors. He wasn’t completely untouchable, high on the podium for all to see. Seung-gil figured that’s how Yuri Plisetsky viewed JJ now, placing second one time too many, angry, before watching the fall from grace that happened in Barcelona.

If you would have told Seung-gil last month that he would be taking orders from a Canadian pain in the ass at any point in his life, he would have walked away. And now?

Seung-gil Lee was twelve feet up in enemy territory, straddling a branch with his red walkie talkie set on the lowest possible volume and pressed into the hollow of his ear. The Korean listened in idly as he leaned against some foliage, gun at the ready, simply waiting.

Waiting on orders from JJ? He was open to the notion.

Minutes passed. Michele Crispino ran by beneath him, his bright blue shirt a tempting target, but Seung-gil was biding his time - waiting to hear information from behind enemy lines, not to reveal his location.

Unfortunately, a woodpecker had other plans.

He glared at the bird, silently willing it to leave as it began to make noise a few feet above him. The Korean flattened himself against the tree, preparing to slink up and quietly shoo the creature away, when more footsteps approached.

"Just a bird," came a hushed voice, and then there was another.

"Right." A pause, then silence. "Wait... Beka."

There was another pause, then Seung-gil felt two pairs of eyes on him.

"I see a sneak," taunted Yuri Plisetsky, and he saw those green eyes flash dangerously even from his high perch. 

Seung-gil sat back up, leaning to reveal himself a bit more with his gun pointed at the duo. "Dangerous accusations like that might get you shot," he replied tonelessly. The Russian scoffed, reaching to his shoulder to turn a dial on his walkie.

"Beka, keep your gun on him," he ordered, nodding at his Kazakh teammate. "I think I'll send a little message to Leroy."

The blond opened his mouth, readying an insult with the button held down, when-

"Yura," Otabek interrupted forcefully. Seung-gil quirked a brow. "I wouldn't. He might send others."

The Korean smirked, fingers teasing the trigger. "You might want to listen to your boy, Plisetsky. He's got a point."

"Shut up," Yuri hissed, pulling his finger off the walkie talkie's button to grasp back onto his rifle. "Okay... we'll just shoot you, then."

Seung-gil kept his rifle pointed downward, unfazed. "Look at all these leaves and branches covering me," he said plainly, and Yuri sized up the area. "You might miss, and when you do, I'll get you first."

The blond lowered his gun a little, frustrated. "There's two of us and one of you, Lee."

"Unless you want to trade one for one, it seems we're still at an impasse, then," the Korean stated, lips curving back up. "Let's make a deal."

Here’s where he had them. The Russian wouldn’t risk his favorite teammate for a chance to off the Korean. If his calculations were correct, they would agree. They would never win, of course.

"We're listening," Otabek spoke up, taking a step closer to the younger skater as if to guard him. Seung-gil uncocked his gun, probably surprising the two. He smirked, laying a palm flat on the large branch.

"I'm about twelve feet up right now. I'll let you shoot me if you can climb to my branch and reach me in… twelve seconds.”

He saw Yuri's eyes flick up the branches, taking in the distance between them. A tempting proposition, no doubt. "Or else...?"

"If you fail to reach me," the Korean declared, shrugging, "you will allow me to walk back to my team's side, completely unharmed."

The Russian clicked his tongue, mind already made up.

"Deal," he affirmed, walking toward the tree, and Seung-gil laughed shortly.

"Stand down, Plisetsky, I'm not a moron. I know you're a hundred pounds of pure rage and flexibility," he explained, using his now cleared gun to gesture toward the Kazakh. His smirk widened.

"This deal is for Altin only."

The blond glanced over his shoulder at Otabek, frowning. Otabek frowned as well. Seung-gil noticed the Kazakh skater looking pensive, eyeing the tree just as his teammate did. Yuri huffed, ready to argue these terms.

"You won't shoot me when I reach the top, then," Otabek interjected firmly, and the Korean quirked a brow.

" _If_ you reach the top." 

Yuri kept his rifle trained on Seung-gil, brows shooting up. He looked torn between curiosity and anxiety. Otabek nodded, setting his own gun down and stepping toward the tree next to the blond. 

“Twelve seconds?”

He touched the bark, looking stoic as usual before meeting Seung-gil's gaze through the leaves.

"Start the clock, then."

'Expert tree climber' was a footnote on the unwritten resume of Otabek Altin, apparently. It only took four seconds into the limit of twelve for Plisetsky to look roughly as surprised as Seung-gil felt, but didn't show. The Kazakh scaled the tree trunk with ease, digging his heels into the bark with all power and no finesse. Yuri's mouth dropped open around seven seconds in, and the Korean was so impressed that he barely registered the fingertips on his branch a moment later.

His grip was true.

Seung-gil was prepared to deliver a cold and backhanded congratulations, but Otabek made a risky swipe, snatching the red team rifle right out of his grip. The Korean froze, words dying on his tongue, and the Kazakh skater dropped immediately, landing a little shakily on the ground. He got to both feet, looking down to brush dirt off his knee with his free hand. 

The Russian was the first to speak, breaking the silence. "Holy shit."

"Was taking my gun necessary?” Seung-gil asked from above, scooting forward on his branch with a grimace. “Remember, it was uncocked." 

"You could have recocked it, and then Yura could have missed his retaliation shot if you went for me," he shrugged, giving the enemy gun a twirl. "I don't trust you."

"That was so fucking cool," Yuri murmured, still looking at Otabek like he just hung the moon. "You're so fucking cool, Beka."

Otabek smiled, a rare sight. Seung-gil grasped his walkie talkie, prepared to take advantage of their temporary distraction.

"JJ," he muttered, holding the button down, and Yuri turned his gun upward at the noise, firing once. He missed, paint splattering off a stray branch.

"It's Seung-gil," he continued on ‘team’ chat, shifting snake-like to dodge incoming paintball number two.

The third time was the charm.

His walkie talkie fell twelve feet down, dropped in surprise, and the Kazakh picked it up. "Nice shot," said Otabek cryptically into Seung-gil's device, not waiting on JJ's response before setting it back down.

Seung-gil watched the skater put a hand on the blond's shoulder. He touched his own, fingertips coming back cold with dabs of blue.

"Let's go."

Twelve seconds was the length of the video Seung-gil took after, woodpecker still mockingly pecking above his head as the paint seeped into his sleeve.  

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

“I think we’re down to five and five, now,” Sara Crispino whispered, ticking off the names on her fingers and taking a quiet moment to mentally mourn the elimination of Seung-gil. Blue paint probably brought out his eyes in the nicest way, though.

She received murmurs of assent, one from each of her sides. The female Crispino shifted her rifle from one hand to the other, pressing herself flatter on her stomach as she settled in between Georgi and Leo. She shook out her hair, which was caught slightly in her helmet – helmet, yes, a much better idea than just goggles, since she didn’t trust the rules being the only thing to prevent a potential headshot. Plus, the helmet made her feel extremely badass.

They had been waiting just behind the slope of a hill for almost seven minutes now. Sara had pulled out her phone two minutes in, snapping a quick picture of the badassery, and Georgi had leaned in, black charcoal on his cheeks amping the photo up tenfold in terms of coolness.

Leo gave a shaky exhale around minute eight, catching her off-guard. “I think I hear someone coming.”

Footsteps, fast as a whip and quieter than Sara expected, also coming not from in front of them, but from beside them, which meant-

“Did someone sneak past us?” Georgi choked out. “I didn’t see anything!”

“Speak for yourself!”

There was a flash of burgundy following the feminine cry, and then everything fell silent again.

Georgi clicked his tongue, alarmed. “’Speak for yourself?’ Mila. We’ll never catch her… she’s probably the fastest runner here. Did she have a flag in her hand, did anyone see?”

“I didn’t see anything,” Leo confirmed, getting up in a haste. “I’ll go after her. You guys go check that our flag is still there!”

Sara opened her mouth to react, but Leo was already running. Georgi split off toward the flag, leaving her on the top of the hill, red rifle at her side. She bounded off in the direction Leo went instead, toward the white line splitting the forest, and she felt something skim her helmet as she made her way through a section of underbrush.

Mila dropped from a branch, leaning forward to place a teasing kiss on the back of Sara’s helmet. The Italian gaped, rooted to the spot.

“I can climb as fast as I can run, you know,” the redhead grinned, taking off almost immediately. Sara got over her shock just in time to provide a retort.

“I hope you ruined your fresh manicure with all that climbing!”

Moments passed. Sara laughed, turning on ‘team’ speak to inform the other remaining four (she hoped) on team JJ, when Emil Nekola came into her peripherals, blue bandana blazing. She gulped. His grin never wavered.

She channeled her inner badass, readying a shot.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Guang Hong Ji had pictured the events of today panning out just like his free skate program, ‘The Inferno.’ He was on the same team as Leo, right? So clearly, it would end with him taking a bullet for his friend. A dramatic, touching gesture.

Instead of taking a bullet, though, he was taking a rope. From JJ’s hands.

“Tie her up tighter, Guang,” the Canadian told him, and Mila attempted to aim a kick in the direction of his crotch. “We need to get information, and we need it now!”

“You’re a pig, Jean,” Mila rolled her eyes as the Chinese skater reached behind the tree for her ropes. “I’m not telling you where the blue flag is… though this is an interesting strategy, capture and ropes and the whole deal. Izzy never told me you have a restraint kink.”

JJ cleared his throat at the mention of his fiancée, clearly concealing a chuckle. Guang felt himself flush, and the redhead leered.

“What did I… oh. You found Mila, then?” Leo entered from a tall bush, nodding at his two teammates. “Nice, I thought I’d lost her back there!”

“She’s just about to talk,” JJ chuckled darkly, gesturing Leo over. The American stepped forward, gun still in hand as he pointed at the ground.

“Isn’t that your old camcorder, Guang?”

The Chinese skater nodded, gazing toward his best friend. “JJ wants to film this game-defining moment.”

“Dude,” Leo said after a beat of silence, face breaking into a grin. He turned to his captain. “Jean, you’re so _weird_. I love it!”

“My man,” JJ winked, fist-bumping like he was born to. Guang reached down for the camera, holding it steady and pointing the lens toward Mila.

“I hope my team comes in and takes a moment to laugh at this ridiculousness before shooting up every single one of you,” Mila declared, struggling with her bonds. Her rifle and blue walkie were in a pile on the ground beside her, just out of her reach. Guang Hong snickered, keeping the camera on her.

“So, Babicheva,” JJ entered the frame, pointing his rifle menacingly into her leg. She kicked out, and the Canadian clicked his tongue. “Your blue flag seems pretty hard to find. Why don’t you give us a hint?”

She grinned, showing teeth. “I don’t give out hints freely. You’re not worthy.”

He chuckled, crossing his arms. Guang figured that if good cop/bad cop was about to happen, JJ would try to be both. “’Not worthy?’ I’m undeniable, Babicheva. How can you say ‘no’ to this face?”

JJ pouted. She bit her tongue, eyes rolling skyward.

“ _Easily_. As for undeniable, let’s just say you’d get a distant second place in the ‘dark, handsome, and undercut’ awards behind Otabek Altin. A very distant second place.”

Leo ooohed, eyebrows raising. “Someone’s got the hots for Altin, huh? Good choice, Mila!”

She shrugged, crossing her legs casually as if she weren’t tied to a tree. “The only _good choice_ is knowing when to back off. Someone called dibs, and they just need a kick in the pants to realize it. Men are all the same,” said Mila vaguely, changing the subject with a snort.

“Anyway, _maybe_ I know where your flag is, or _maybe_ I’m just keeping you all here with me while my team runs freely in your territory. Think about it,” she paused, looking right into the camera.

Guang Hong saw a glint in her eyes, and barely had time to lower the camera before something burst in through the bushes – Emil.

JJ was the first to take a shot. He was caught off-guard, however, and the red paint splattered on the bearded Czech… right beside the ear, illegally.

“Hey, no headshots!” Mila hollered as Emil sputtered, shocked. “What the hell?”

JJ looked surprised at himself. Everyone stopped moving for a moment. “Sorry. It was a mistake!”

“ _This_ wasn’t,” Emil declared, bringing the game back into motion. His shot pierced the air, hitting JJ’s left shoulder with little resistance, and the Canadian stepped back, angry as he steadied his own gun once more.

“Good thing Guang Hong can’t tie a knot to save his life,” Mila called out, and JJ faltered a bit, arm dropping slightly.

Guang Hong turned to the source of noise, and found Mila, untied and with her gear back in hand. He dropped the camera, scrambling for his own rifle. He froze, hands in the grass, as he locked eyes with another pair through the bush – dark and dangerous.

Maybe he should have paid a little more attention on rope days back in boy scouts.

“Otabek’s here, too,” Guang Hong shrieked out, narrowly missing a blue bullet from the Kazakh. He scrambled away, backing up to a tree as he lined up a red shot on Emil.

Success!

The Czech made a surprised noise, dropping his rifle to clutch at fresh paint on his side. Mila sidestepped JJ, practically jumping into the bush behind Otabek, and, before Guang could recover, the blue pair was gone.

“Sorry,” Emil said, lips quirking up. “Did I interrupt an interrogation? Better luck next time, mates!”

He crawled away, gleefully signaling his elimination over all sixteen devices. Guang Hong reached down, brushing off the fallen camera. Not even a scratch!

“Okay, but,” he spoke into the lens, biting his lip, “does Mila know where _our_ flag is, or not?”

“Bluffing,” JJ predicted, scoffing. Guang wasn’t so sure.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Emil Nekola’s head shot up at the familiar voice.

He had a sixth sense, really, quite a gift! His normal senses weren’t any weaker because of it, luckily, but this one sense? MUCH stronger than his five others.

He called it… his ‘Mickey sense.’

“Mickey!” he greeted, grinning up at his friend from the ground. “How’s it going? I was shot, sadly.”

“Hmm, I see that…but did you know,” the Italian started, looking rushed and breathless, “did you know someone _shot_ Sara? Did you see who it was?”

Oops.

“I mean, someone from our blue team had to, right? She’s wearing red, mate, the color of the enemy,” Emil explained, grin not yet faltering. Mickey frowned, eyes narrowing.

Keep it cool, keep it cool, keep it-

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

It had been more of a statement than a question. Emil chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well… okay, yes.” His Italian friend frowned more prominently.

“Sorry!”

Mickey sighed, eyes sweeping the area for potential enemies. “I guess I’ll let it slide _this time_.”

“Take it out on Jean Jacques, my friend,” Emil suggested. “Avenge her for us both!”

“Yeah,” Mickey muttered, eyes snapping back to Emil as he tightened the grip on his gun. “Good idea. Thanks.”

“Happy to help!” Emil smiled, making a movement to shoo him away with his phone-free hand. “Be careful… you’re in enemy territory, remember.”

“Right,” was the curt response. “I’m waiting for Altin and Babicheva to launch an attack. Gotta meet them around here.”

There was an awkward pause, then Mickey spoke again.

“What are you doing on your phone?”

“Ah!” the Czech skater held up a finger, delighted. “It’s a survey I just found on social media… did you know that 57% of the skating fan base believes that JJ Leroy is going to win today, Mickey? I need to vote now! Who should I vote for?”

“You should _probably_ vote for Yuri,” the Italian said, gesturing at both of their blue bandanas. Emil frowned.

“I’m already eliminated, though. Perhaps blue team is now hopeless, and I should vote for JJ!”

Mickey opened his mouth to retort.

“But,” Emil continued, finger hovering between both options, “you’re still in! You’re doing so well, and I believe in you, Mickey, so I should vote for blue!”

He confidently selected ‘blue team,’ beaming once more as he looked back up, but the Italian was already gone.

Mickey frowned a little less for the rest of the day, though, and Emil noticed. How?

That sixth sense, of course.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

“… so, it looks like red team has Leo, Guang Hong, Georgi, and JJ left, while blue has Mickey, Mila, Otabek, and Yuri Plisetsky still standing. Good luck to all that remain… especially you, Mickey!”

The Czech’s voice faded out quickly, but JJ Leroy barely paid it any attention. He had only one name on his mind… well, besides ‘JJ,’ of course.

Yuri Plisetsky.

Last time they faced off, there was only one shot on him of the three needed. JJ himself now had two of the three dripping from his clothing (thanks for that last one, Nekola).

He wasn’t worried, of course. Was JJ a better shot? Sure. Has JJ proven time after time that he could make a comeback? Clearly. Everyone saw Barcelona, right? Bronze, baby! JJ didn’t need a comeback, though, and he didn’t even need two more shots on the blond. Why?

Because JJ knew exactly where the blue flag was. He had known since before sniping Yuuri Katsuki in the stomach ages ago.

Who was his source? His very own Seung-gil Lee, the best right-hand man the Canadian could have ever asked for.

Jean himself wasn’t much of a tree climber, but Seung-gil had shimmied his way up a tall one on the enemy blue side from nearly the very beginning, and alas, whisperings of the enemies were heard. There was a grounded log, it seemed, with the flag tucked neatly within. Seung-gil had reported this to JJ face-to-face as he passed underneath his perch many minutes ago, minutes before the Plisetsky-Altin duo struck him down.

Curse them, and curse Altin and his terribly fine undercut.

So yes, JJ knew. He played along with the Mila interrogation. He didn’t dare talk about the location over walkie talkie, because it was easy to hear whisperings into those devices. The other team could be hiding in a bush _anywhere_.

So, the Canadian did the next best thing – he whispered the location in the ear of exactly _one member_ of his team. It was someone who could be trusted, JJ knew that much. That someone was still alive.

“Jean?”

The Canadian looked up at Guang Hong, train of thought ending. The two were alone, still hidden behind the bushes. Mila’s ropes littered the ground. Leo had just left.

It was decision time, JJ style.

“I know where the blue flag is,” JJ started, voice low, and he rose it, screaming with all he had. “IT’S IN THE MARKED LOG THREE MINUTES IN!”

The Canadian heard his voice carry all over the wooded arena. Nice.

“No way, really?” echoed a voice that sounded exactly like Phichit Chulanont. Guang Hong’s eyes widened.

“What?” the Chinese teenager gasped, grabbing at his ears with a wince. “How long have you known?”

“A while now,” JJ answered, breathless. “Everyone probably heard that, so let’s go, and let’s end this _our way_!”

The pair readied their rifles, pushing out of the bushes and pacing quickly toward the center white line. 

“THIS IS FOR SARA!”

JJ barely had time to duck as the blue paint sailed over his shoulder and marked the tree behind him. Now was not the time – he had two shots on him already, and he couldn’t bear losing this way, not with the three-shot limit!

Luckily, he had a knight in shining armor, and no, it wasn’t Leo de la Iglesia.

Guang Hong Ji launched himself forward, blocking Jean from another incoming paint bullet as he fired a red shot of his own at the fast-approaching male Crispino. JJ crouched behind his teammate, stunned, as all three men assessed the damage.

Fresh blue on Guang Hong’s stomach. Fresh red on Michele’s thigh. Everyone stopped moving. JJ replayed what just happened in his mind, clearing his throat.

“As much as I _want_ to be biased toward my teammate,” the Canadian said, quirking a heavy brow in disbelief, “that looked like an actual tie. You’re both out.”

Guang Hong opened and closed his mouth, nodding as he accepted his team captain’s ruling. Mickey shrugged, placing his blue rifle on the ground.

“I can agree with that. You’re lucky Guang Hong was there, though.”

The Chinese skater grinned at JJ. JJ grinned back, reaching out for a fist bump.

“Think Leo can make it to the flag?” Guang asked him, taking a seat on the ground. JJ shrugged, checking his ammo supply.

“I’m not worried. I have a plan, anyway. A secret weapon, if you will.”

Guang Hong raised his eyebrows, curious. Even Mickey looked intrigued, provided you could see past his usual frown. The Canadian skater beamed, channeling all the JJ Style he had into one word.

“Georgi.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Georgi Popovich was not a petty person, but, if you looked closely, you could definitely see that the charcoal cheek lines he had drawn on Yuuri, Yuri, and Mila this morning were slightly crooked. His and Victor’s? Perfect and pristine, as they should be.

Again, Georgi wasn’t petty, and he tried to remember that fact as he pitched his voice high, shrieking into ‘all’ chat at the proper time.

“Guys, it’s Mila,” he announced, “and I know where the red flag is. To the red territory – let’s end this over there!”

The skater let go of the button, cackling to himself. Phichit Chulanont could barely do a passable Michele Crispino, but Georgi? He knew Mila inside and out, and he was the master of accents, the wizard of deception, the king of impressions, if you will. There could be two kings, no offense to captain JJ, and _this_ king was going to save the game.

He was no sleeping prince, after all.

The flag was in his grasp. Literally. _He had the flag._

The Russian held up the blue scrap of fabric, marveling as it moved through his fingers, before stuffing it into his side pocket where it would stay concealed. After the announcement he just sent out under the guise of Mila, everyone should be headed over to and staying deep in the red side, giving Georgi the time to run back to the middle, find Jean Jacques, and hand the stolen flag off to him for the win condition to be met.

He hoped little Yuri wasn’t _too_ attached to his ‘Welcome to the Madness’ routine.

The Russian lurked from tree to tree, doing his best to stay in the shadows. There was no need to rush, and he was approaching the center white division with no distractions so far.

Oops, jinxed it.

“I’ve heard that fake Mila voice so many times that I could probably do it just as well myself,” Yuri Plisetsky growled, borderline spiteful. He pushed the muzzle of his rifle into Georgi’s hip, and the older man stopped, knuckles white on his own weapon. “I believe you have something of mine.”

“Do I?” Georgi replied, thinking of ways to stall for time. If he were shot and eliminated right now, he’d have to drop the flag, and his blond rink mate could put it back before anyone else even reached them.

He frowned, sidestepping. Yuri followed, eyes never leaving his. “I’m not sure that I do. Do you have my team’s flag, Yurochka?”

“I would have won by now if I did, wouldn’t I?” Yuri reminded him, teeth bared. They continued circling, staring each other down. “Fucking _give it to me_ , Popovich, or I’m popping blue on your hip before you can even blink.”

Georgi saw Leo over Yuri’s shoulder before he even had the chance to blink.

The American lined up his shot, stepping forward… onto a twig. Yuri’s grip faltered at the cracking noise as he turned to look over his shoulder, and Georgi took a step back.

Splat!

Red dripped down the back of Yuri’s thigh, and the blond screeched, angry. The captains were tied up in shots, Georgi knew now, with one remaining on each.

Georgi had the flag, and, even if he couldn’t get to the Canadian, he and Leo could end the game right here, right now.

Leo locked eyes with him, questioning, and Georgi pointed to his side pocket. The American nodded, preparing a final shot for Yuri, but the blond wasn’t having any of it.

Yuri lunged forward, right to the spot where Georgi had pointed, halfway ripping his pocket out. Georgi shrieked, losing his footing as the blond’s hands closed around the blue fabric.

“Yes!” the smallest Russian breathed out, flinging himself behind a tree with all the finesse of a gold medalist as Leo narrowly missed him with more red paint. Georgi watched him circle the tree, quick as a whip as he sprinted back toward the center. The oldest Russian got up, scrambling to his feet as Leo rushed forward, hot on Yuri’s trail.

The American skater was stopped, however, when Otabek Altin tackled him to the ground, pinning his legs down.

“Otabek,” Leo grinned up, slightly out of breath. “Hey, friend. Or, uh, enemy.”

“Leo,” the Kazakh acknowledged, smirking slightly. “Good talk.”

Georgi didn’t exactly know what to do here. His plan had backfired terribly, and Yuri was getting away. Could Georgi keep up and catch him? Probably not… so he did the only thing he could think of at the time.

He grabbed his own rifle. He grabbed Leo’s rifle. He grabbed Otabek’s rifle. Then, he hauled ass to the center as fast as his legs could take him.

There was a shout of surprise from Leo and a shout of anger from Otabek, but it was actually a pretty well-thought out plan, because now, Leo was free to get up with no fear of being shot at.

Ah, yes, perfect.

He heard the footsteps fast approaching behind him, and Leo reached out for his red gun. Georgi allowed it, dropping it out of his hand, and, with all the strength he could muster, he threw Otabek’s blue weapon into a bush.

The Kazakh skater cursed, skirting off the trail to retrieve his gun. Leo laughed, shocked at this turn of events. He breezed past Georgi, clearly determined to catch Yuri before he could search the red team side for their flag.

It was Mila, Otabek, and Yuri against himself, Leo, and JJ.

Georgi was quite sure that, though Yuri had the blue flag in his grasp, red team had the upper hand here. He settled into a slow jog, not trusting himself to even keep up to Leo, and forgetting completely about Otabek.

“King JJ,” he muttered, addressing his walkie talkie, “Codename Sweet Sixteen has the blue flag! Find him and you win.”

He depressed the button, continuing toward the middle line, and all was quiet, save the large group of eliminated skaters. Georgi paused, brows knitting before JJ appeared, very out of breath. He crossed over to the blue side, blue eyes wide.

“Where’s Plisetsky? I know he didn’t cross the line yet, so he must be hiding.”

Georgi gestured him into the blue territory, and the Canadian followed. He paused.

“Wait… Leo, where is he?”

Almost on cue, the walkie talkie buzzed to life.

“Leo here, guys… I’ve been shot. Good luck.”

“What,” JJ muttered sharply, “who even-“

Otabek came bursting out of blue’s wooded area at the moment, and Georgi shrieked, pointing.

“Altin! He must be going in for our flag!”

The teammates looked at each other, torn. “Plisetsky will either have it on him or put it back where we know to find it,” JJ said quickly, self-assured. “Let’s go to our side and protect what’s ours!”

Georgi nodded, and the pair crossed over into their territory, slowly tracing Otabek’s trail for the stealth advantage. The path was a winding mess, and they were probably two minutes from their flag when it happened.

Yuri Plisetsky dropped from a tree a hundred feet behind them, his own blue flag waving in one hand and rifle at the ready on the other. Georgi turned to shoot, shielding JJ from a potential lethal shot, when pounding footsteps approached from the direction of their-

Enter Mila.

“Flag!” she hollered, something red clutched tight around her fingers. JJ yelled, making a motion to move toward her. All four skaters met in the middle.

Yuri screamed, aiming a high kick at Georgi’s jaw. The foot briefly connected with his chin but he held his gun tight, fumbling only a little as he turned quickly to JJ and Mila. The redhead sprung forward, and then there was a smacking sound.

JJ yelped. The side of his face was raw from the barrel of Mila’s gun, just below his goggles and right on the charcoal Js.

“That was for Emil,” the female Russian hollered, passing the red flag off to Yuri as Georgi stood in a crouch, gaping. JJ dropped to his knees, gun down.

“That was dirty, Babicheva!”

She ignored him, and the sixteen-year-old victor held up both flags, panting hard.

Otabek ran up, out of breath. “Did we – did we win?”

“Yes,” Yuri breathed out, laughing through the fatigue. Black makeup was running down his face from overexertion.

“Hell, yes! I won the bet! Woo!”

Otabek stepped forward to put a bracing hand on Yuri, who leaned into the touch. The blond collapsed partially against Mila, and Georgi couldn’t help but smile. Rink mate bonding was always endearing. The tall Russian dropped his gun, stepping past the moaning, disappointed puddle of JJ on the ground to congratulate the winning team.

Because Georgi wasn’t petty, of course. Not at all.

Did he post a really unflattering picture of Yuri later on, looking sweaty and exhausted while lifted up over Mila’s head with ease? Yes, but… that high kick to Georgi’s face had really packed some influence. It was karma, if you will.

Besides, _he_ looked fierce in that very photo, left arm swung around a pouting JJ with Seung-gil on his right, Victor and Yuuri taking up the rear, and the remaining nine in various poses in the grass.

#yuripturns16 brought down Instagram for a whole hour.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

The guest room was _Chulanont's_ for the duration of his stay, but Yuri Plisetsky cracked open the door all the same. Phichit was downstairs, anyway - jitterbugging or some other lame-ass dance with Sara and Minami - and Yuri had no patience as he peered inside.

Empty.

His eyes swept over the slightly littered dresser, the duffel on the floor, and the half-made bed. The blond strode to the mirror, because why the hell not, checking for leftover war paint from the morning, for dark circles, for any sign he'd aged another year.

Yuri smirked. Sixteen looked good on him, and so did being a fucking winner.

He had won the bet, and his ‘surprise’ party was in full swing. Fifteen other skaters were managing to not piss him off as much as he thought they would in such close quarters. Hell, he’d even laughed at a joke JJ Leroy made downstairs a few minutes ago, but maybe Mila had already spiked the punchbowl, and then he could blame it on the alcohol.

Probably not.

Tonight felt like a fast glow, like there was something itching under his skin, over-bright and invincible, and the music reverberated through the apartment in waves, barely drowning out gleeful chatter from downstairs and the feverish hum in his veins. He didn't hear the footsteps coming.

"Admiring your favorite present, Yurio?"

Yuri turned from the vanity, surveying Victor. The stupidity of the older Russian in a gaudy child's party hat for the occasion delighted him, though he'd never admit it.

"What, this old thing?"  he asked, tugging at his teal cashmere sweater. So damn soft. He shrugged, feigning indifference. "It's alright, I guess. Mila’s earphones are infinitely more useful than clothes, though."

Victor smiled nonetheless. "Looking for something up here?"

"Someone," Yuri corrected, sparked warm like fire. The sweater wasn't the cause. "I haven't seen Beka in at least twenty minutes."

"Bathroom?" Victor offered. Yuri shook his head, frowning.

"Checked them all."

The older skater smiled softly, gesturing for him to come back down the stairs. Yuri followed, brow quirked.

“Did you check outside, maybe?”

“Uh,” the blond stopped at the bottom of the landing, music hitting his ears at full volume. Leo was the DJ of the moment, hands spinning wildly on vinyl. “It’s freezing outside, so hell no?”

“Give it a shot,” Victor encouraged, smiling like he knew something. Yuri narrowed his eyes, insult on the tip of his tongue, but he realized he didn’t have any better leads.

“Fine,” he said, taking it all in stride as he retrieved his furry coat from the door. Yuuri gave him a thumbs-up from his spot next to Minami, but he didn't know why.

Yuri jabbed a finger in the silver-haired skater’s general direction. “If I freeze to death outside, I’m blaming you!”

Victor grinned. The blond tucked his hair back into his hood, fixing the smirking bastard with his best tough-looking scowl as he reached for the door handle. The chill wasn’t too terrible tonight, Yuri realized, and he stepped onto the welcome mat outside, closing the door behind him as the slight breeze hit his face. He began to look around, going down a step, and something across the road in front of the apartment made him freeze.

It wasn’t the cold. It was Otabek.

His best friend was bundled up in leather and fabric, per usual, and leaning against his motorcycle, which was parked across the street from the bottom of the steps. The Kazakh was smiling slightly, hands in his pockets before he took one out to give Yuri a small wave.

The casual stance, him on the stairs, the douchebag wave.

Yuri’s mouth fell open. He choked on nothingness and disbelief, because he had seen this scene play out.

 _Sixteen Candles._ That goddamn movie.

He scrambled down to the sidewalk, taking the steps two at a time.  Otabek had dropped his hand, but the smile remained, and Yuri approached, slowing his pace down.

“This doesn’t look like an ‘80s Camaro,” he gestured to his friend’s motorcycle. If his voice came out shakier than usual, he would blame it on the cold, but Otabek didn’t call him out on it. The brunet blinked, still smiling.

“I had to make do.”

Yuri lifted his chin in mock defiance. He reached out, close enough now to run a hand over the back wheel of the bike. It seemed easier to talk to the bike directly – made him feel braver, because he sure as hell didn't know what he was feeling, but fuck, it was good.

“You think you can," he started, words unstoppable from his tongue, " _woo me_  with fast motorcycles and cool stances, Beka? What's next, a cake?”

Images from the cheeseball film flitted across his mind – a pair at a cozy table, alone, a vanilla cake with sixteen lit candles,  _a kiss._

“Check the front seat. Katsuki helped me bake it yesterday.”

Yuri blanched, looking toward his friend so fast that his neck cricked. Seriously?

He made his way to the front of the bike, eyes never leaving Otabek’s, and, sure enough, there was something round and foil-wrapped. He inhaled through his nose.

“You are,” the blond managed, realizing words were hard. “Beka. You’re goddamn ridiculous, you know that?”

“I know that,” the Kazakh skater replied, soft expression still in place, and Yuri wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch it off or look at it forever. “You deserve a cake. You earned it today.”

“The cake’s my reward for winning, right?” Yuri questioned, trying to make sense of it all. He half-smiled. “You made it _yesterday_ , though, so you had full confidence in me to beat JJ this whole time? Hah!”

Otabek smirked, gaze practically glowing in the streetlights. “Of course I had full confidence in you. You're unstoppable, Yura.”

“I’d never played paintball before," Yuri pointed out, lip twitching up. "You had to show me how to hold the damn rifle properly this morning."

“You’re right.”

“I know skating, not tactical warfare,” the blond continued. Otabek's response was quiet, sincere. 

“Someone with the unforgettable eyes of a soldier shouldn’t discredit their knowledge of tactical warfare.”

The Kazakh scanned his face as if he were trying to memorize every detail, lingering, and Yuri felt exposed at his words, cracked wide open. He wavered, flushing.

“Are you not cold out here?” Yuri asked after a long pause, surprise still madly ebbing and flowing as he gestured to his friend’s lack of gloves, a distraction. “How long have you been waiting for me?”

Otabek stepped out of his lean – a little less stoic, a little more hesitant – his coat fluttering in the cool, gentle breeze.

"Ages," came the reply, barely more than a whisper, and it hit Yuri profoundly.

The Russian busied himself with unwrapping the dessert, certainly pink-faced by now. The cake was vanilla, and looked to be plainly iced, but, if Katsudon had helped, it probably tasted damn delicious.

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t light the candles,” the brunet murmured, gesturing to the dessert. He stood close, but not close enough, and that realization lit Yuri up like a match. “This wind wouldn’t do them any favors.”

“Not like I can eat cake anyway,” the Russian said automatically, shrugging like cake was the sweetest thing outside. “I have to stick to my strict diet, you know the drill. Carbs are killer.”

Otabek smirked, borderline mischievous this time. Yuri died a little more inside. “It’s your birthday, though. I’m sure one taste wouldn’t hurt.”

The blond shifted his gaze to the cake, then back to his best friend. 

His hands twitched by his sides, and something overcame him, something about the moment, the thoughtfulness, Otabek Altin’s awesome fucking eyes that were boring into his right now, mapping their movements.

_One taste wouldn’t hurt._

Yuri gravitated forward. He reached out to twine his hands into the brunet’s scarf, hearing the surprised hitch of breath before tilting his chin upward to brush their lips together.

He didn’t remember squeezing his eyes shut, but it happened sometime after he leaned in like an awkward mess and sometime before Otabek reached a gentle hand up to skim his cheek, touch soft as air. The Kazakh pressed in closer for a second kiss, cradling his other hand against the back of Yuri’s neck.

The blond felt the smile against his lips as he lost himself in the moment, cake completely forgotten, because everything was cheesy as fuck, and everything was wonderful.

Later, the video he posted online went a little something like this:

_“Hey, I’m Yuri Plisetsky, but you should know that by now. This is Otabek Altin, my very best friend who completely sucks at social media. He hasn’t used Chulanont’s tag at all, so I’m going to tag his account right on this video so his page can increase its total post count to, like, seven.”_

_“Hi.”_

_“Anyway… unless you decided to crawl under a rock and hibernate for the past two weeks, you know by now that I won the most important bet of my young life this morning, and Jerk Jackass Leroy will be suffering next month at Worlds.”_

_“You might want to edit out his name, Yura. There are young viewers here.”_

_“Jerk Jackass is clearly his birth name. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Beka. Anyway, I’ve had an exceptionally awesome birthday today, so I’m feeling generous. Angels, viewers, internet – I’ve decided to leave Leroy’s fate in your hands. I’ll give you a week to vote for any song you want as his exhibition skate at Worlds, and majority vote wins. Sound good?”_

_“Letting the fans pick? Smart move, Yura.”_

_“Thanks. Votes, though, cast them. Leave them in comments. Whatever. No Nickelback, because apparently, JJ loves that shit. That crap. Ahem. Who would have thought?”_

_“Canadians, probably.”_

_“Damn it, Beka, you’re ridiculous!”_

_“I made you cake, though.”_

_“That you did, that you did. I guess you’re okay.”_

_“I climbed a tree for you, too.”_

_“It was very distracting, yes.”_

_“You are very distracting, yes.”_

_“B-Beka!”_

_“Sorry. That sweater is a nice color on you. It really brings out your eyes.”_

Later, Yuri was unsurprised when Victor ‘liked’ the video in three seconds flat. Goddamn birthday sweater.

Otabek’s touch was softer than any cashmere.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

+1:

“Here we go,” Christophe muttered, quirking a manicured eyebrow in anticipation. “Get all of your smugness out, Chu. We all _knew_ this was coming.”

Phichit Chulanont gripped the railing tighter, leaning down to giggle into his friend’s (obscenely) mesh sleeve.

“Plisetsky’s voters were no match for yours, _Mr. Social Media King_ ,” the Swiss man sighed good-humoredly, practically talking into the top of the shorter skater’s head.

“The Angels gave a valiant effort,” Phichit shrugged, lifting his chin as JJ skated out toward the center of the ice. His voice dropped down to an excited murmur. “It’s showtime!”

He adjusted the zoom of his camera phone, angling it just right as the announcer’s voice boomed again, a deafening echo throughout the grand stadium.

“Next up, we have the exhibition skate of Jean-Jacques Leroy, our fifth-place earner this week at the World Championship Event! He will be skating to the theme song from the newest film in a much-loved series… ‘The King and the Skater 4.’”

“I love this song _so much_ ,” the Thai man squeaked out, biting down on his lip with longing. Christophe nudged him in the sequined jacket, smirking.

The music started, bold and cheerful, and a single spotlight landed on the Canadian. He started to glide, and Phichit’s panning camera didn’t miss a single second.

"Chu," whispered Chris, suddenly thoroughly amused, "is JJ wearing a… is that what I _think_ it is on his head?”

Phichit Chulanont merely smirked.

This week’s Instagram trending topic?

#itsHAMSTERstyle

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy bday @ Yuri P!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and, for anyone curious:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uB9p20sWyy0
> 
> Again, please let me know what you think - I'd love the feedback. :)


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